


Red Robb and the Burning of the Riverlands

by strangebloke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anyone can die, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canon Divergence - War of The Five Kings, Fire Wight, Gen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, King Jon Snow, King Stannis Baratheon, POV Arya Stark, POV Dacey Mormont, POV Jon Snow, R Plus L Equals J, Stannis the Mannis, The King in The North, Warg Arya Stark, Warg Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangebloke/pseuds/strangebloke
Summary: Sometimes, the pain only truly begins after you die.Robb Stark rises alive from the waters of the trident, but this isn't the Robb you knew. His only passion is to wage bloody war on the hosts of the Lannisters and their vassals.In the far North, Jon Snow receives a letter that will change his life forever, and in the East, Arya's mad dash to Braavos is cut short by an old friend.
Relationships: Dacey Mormont/Jon "The Smalljon" Umber
Comments: 282
Kudos: 289





	1. The Death of Good King Robb

A dance, a brush of the arm, a hand touching cold steel… Dacey Mormont had seen and felt little enough.

Enough, though, that her hands shook with terror.

Steel, at a wedding, under a richly decorated doublet. Could there be some reasonable motive for Edmyn Frey to be wearing such a thing in secret? No, there were only two causes to wear armor in such a way, at such a time. Either Edmyn Frey was expecting an assassin, or he intended to be one. Dacey knew little enough of Southern politics, but she knew enough to discern which of the two Edmyn expected.

She had not wanted to dance with Edmyn at all but the Smalljon had pushed her to it. Better sooner rather than later, she had thought, better to get it over with and silence the Smalljon early in the evening so that she could enjoy the rest in peace. In any case, a dance was no great evil. Dacey could step to music as gracefully as any Southern maiden, and at times she enjoyed reminding oafs like the Smalljon of that.

But then the steel underneath. Steel at a wedding. Could Edmyn Frey be alone? No, that was unthinkable. And even as she thought it a million other things caught her attention. The maiden Roslin, awaiting her bedding, was pale as a sheet. Black Walder and his ilk were dressed too warmly for a warm autumn night. Her eyes turned upwards to the gallery and saw the numerous bards. Too many bards, and too warmly dressed as well. The bottom dropped out of her gut with fear. This was not a scheme of an Edmyn Frey. This was a scheme of Old Walder himself, and one that had been a long time brewing. She forced herself to be calm, focused on her breathing. She could be calm in a battle, and this was not one of those, not yet. The Freys might wear steel but she had steel too, deep in the core of her being. Her spine locked in place. She would not look at Old Walder, would not give the game away. She would go instead to her King, to King Stark, and warn him of the danger before… before this plot was brought to fruition.

The boy himself lounged in his high seat, untroubled and invincible. A handsome boy, her king Robb was, with blood-red curls and fine features, but a boy he nonetheless remained. Too young to be expected to lead, yet he had. Too young to die, yet he might.

She joined him on his wide seat and leaned into him as if she were his lover. A ridiculous act, for she was a full hand taller than him, but she did not do it for his benefit. He reacted instantly, pulling away, but she caught his shoulder in an iron grip.

“My King,” she urged, desperately quiet and intense. “My King, you are not safe, but we cannot let our enemies know that I am aware of them. Let them see only your bodyguard attending to you. They will all believe it easily enough, I have been hearing their remarks all evening.”

Her King nodded slowly, then forced a smile. “What is the matter?” His voice came sharp and hard.

“Edmyn Frey, Black Walder, and a dozen others are armed and armored, your Grace. I felt the steel under Edmyn’s cloak myself, and the others are dressed much like him. Half the bards and singers are only pretending to play, and every Frey that isn’t dressed for battle is near white with fear.” She forced herself to smile, her grimace matching the King’s’ own. “Look at our hosts, my King, and tell me we are safe.”

Her King’s eyes circled the room, his fake smile cracking under the strain of a clenched jaw. He said nothing for a moment. “They’re waiting for something,” he muttered, half to himself. “When will they strike? The bedding. That will be the best time. I will be right in and among them then, three to a side. I will have a dozen knives in me before I hit the floor.”

“They’ll strike right now if they suspect you know,” Dacey said, her voice low and near to the King’s ear. She swallowed her fear and placed a hand on his chest. “We’ve neither armor nor weapons larger than a butterknife, your Grace.”

The King’s lips pressed into a hard line. “I won’t leave anyone behind I won’t...”

“Your mother, your uncle… others, they can be ransomed. You must live, your Grace. In a game of cyvasse, the King alone truly matters in the end.”

A flash of rage overtook her King’s face, and she felt sure he would strike her. “Do not presume to tell me what I must do.”

Dacey felt like crying, for this stupid, wonderful boy that she called her king. “Excuse yourself to the privy,” she urged, “and I… I can bring the Queen Mother and few others to meet you there. We can cut our way free if we move fast.” They needed to leave behind the bulk of their leadership. Too many of the guests were inebriated or indisposed. Even so, she knew in her heart that her plan had but a small chance of success.

The King’s eyes tightened in anger, tears forming at the edge. How unfair it was, Dacey thought, that the King’s virtue should only bring him sadness. Wars were hard enough business for kings who did not care for their men. When the King wiped his eyes clear, his eyes were hard as flint. “I will distract the Freys. You rally those of our men that are sober. Get someone up by the gallery in case those bards are hiding crossbows, and send a trustworthy squire out to get to rally the men in the camp. If Frey means to kill us here, he likely intends to Bitterbridge the army in the camp as well.”

“My King, I...”

The king gently pushed her to the side and reached for a flagon of wine. How could he drink at this time? They needed sharp wits, sharp, minds. But the King rose from his seat and tipped the flagon back, drinking deeply of strong wine.

...Or not, she realized with a start. This was a mummer’s farce, a play for their would-be assassins. The flagon tipped back, but the wine did not go past his lips. He turned to Dacey, a broad smile on his face. His cheeks still had a puffy red color from crying, but it was easy enough to believe the redness born of wine rather than sorrow.

“Be merry, Lady Dacey!” He cried. “Be not sad! Tis my nuncle’s wedding today! I think I shall dance, and you should as well!”

Eyes were on them now, from Jinglebell the idiot jester all the way up to his grandfather Walder up on his high seat. “Your Grace,” Dacey said, standing abruptly and straightening her gown, “You are asking me to dance?”

Robb burped, suddenly, and laughed, “Ah, I was, but I have thought better of it, Lady Dacey. I fear I have but one good…” He stumbled slightly here. “I fear that drink has got the better of me. I might only have one dance yet tonight before you and all my guards must carry me back to my chair, and if I have but one dance, how could I dance with anyone but my fair cousins the Freys!”

Behind her, the Greatjon exploded in a gale of laughter and Dacey found herself smiling as well. Her King could have made a wonderful mummer.

“Who will dance with me?” the King called, addressing the crowd, greatly to the merriment of everyone assembled.

The Frey men, too surprised at first, recovered quickly and pushed some of their daughters forward, the maidens blushing and nervously smiling at each other. Their smiles were too tight by half, Dacey thought, and too nervous - or was that but her imagination? The King ignored them all and striding forward caught the elbow of a great drunken mound of a man. “Cousin Merrett!” Robb laughed. “Will you not dance with me?”

The Stark men bellowed with laughter at that, and the mirth of the Frey men seemed the lesser by only a narrow margin. Merrett Frey was an enormous man, tall as an oak tree and nearly as wide. He seemed more shocked by this development than anyone else, dropping his flagon to the table in surprise. The musicians switched the tune to The Bear and the Maiden Fair as the young king pulled big Merrett Frey out to dance.

All eyes followed the king, and so Dacey was freed from their notice. Her King had said he would have but one dance before she needed to be ready, that much had been clear. The Smalljon would know first. The big man was serious, sensible, and dangerous. He had scarcely touched drink all night, and his deep-set eyes watched her coolly as she approached.

“Treason,” Dacey whispered, clapping him on the shoulder. “Armor and daggers on the Freys, crossbows in the gallery, and I know not what else. Stand ready by the door with your father and however many others you can gather quietly. The Twins will flow with blood this night. Let us ensure that our King’s is not among it.”

Smalljon’s face did not shift at all, except to make a slight nod. Dacey clapped him on the shoulder again and walked off. They split ways, the Smalljon turning to Wendell Manderly and Dacey approaching Lady Stark. The Lady rose to meet her.

“I know what it is you want to say,” Lady Stark stated, before Dacey could even open her mouth. “There is only one reason for you to be sitting so familiarly in my son’s lap.”

Dacey bowed, “I ask for your forgiveness, milady. After this… dance of your son’s is over, we will have to… very speedily return him to his chair, I think.”

Catelyn nodded, her understanding perfect. “I shall be ready to attend my son. A chair near the door perhaps?” Meet me near the door, she might as well have said. “You are excused,” Catelyn replied, and Dacey walked away. Not for the first time, Dacey smiled with admiration for the Iron Lady of the North. A trout by birth, but she had as much wolf in her as anyone.

A dozen more conversations and the song began to enter its last verse. Dacey walked calmly to the far end of the room near the foot of the table, a butcher’s knife hidden in the folds of her skirt. A score of the King’s stoutest men had gathered there, all idly mingling on the far side of the room alongside Lady Stark and a few other women of import. Lord Tully himself had been too deeply surrounded by Freys for any attempt at extraction. Indeed, more than half of the King’s men had been left alone. Too little time, too much wine.

Dacey grit her teeth with nervousness. It seemed unlikely that anyone had noted their movement, at least. All eyes remained fixed on the King and his bumbling, drunken dance in the center of the room. Merret Frey’s eyes bulged hugely with exertion as Robb danced the woman’s part in front of him and all his cousins sang along with the bards.

Dacey swallowed a draught of air to cool herself. This room was too hot, the music too loud, the food too rich and the scents too pungent. She needed focus, not this… madness. Up above, the bards played the final verse of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, and Dacey closed her eyes to center herself.

“And maiden FAIR,” The bards screamed, joined by half a hundred lesser voices, “And the BEAR, the BEAR….”

The King finished his dance with an elegant bow to his gasping partner. Poor Merrett Frey had tried his best to keep up with the boy, but if he had ever been given to dance, that had been a summer and a winter ago. Robb laughed aloud as though he had not a care in the world and the Freys laughed with him.

“What a wonderful wedding this is! And what wonderful music! But come, there is one song more I must hear!” Robb’s cry was full of joy, but all at once his face turned hard and his voice turned cold. “The Rat Cook. Does my Lord Frey remember that song? Does he remember what the gods have to say of those who breach guest right?”

The room stopped. All at once, every man, child, and serving girl halted, their merriment turning to shock. Old Walder himself leaned forward on his throne, bony jaw open wide with amazement.

“Why continue this farce, Frey?” the King stated, his quiet voice almost a shout in the sudden silence. “Come on now, there’s a hundred of you and only one of me, who wants the honor of saying they killed the Young Wolf?”

The room exploded. Every Frey man in the room went for a dagger, but the Northmen were quicker. Dacey’s knife cut across a man’s throat before he could so much as turn to face her. Next to her the Greatjon grabbed Edmyn Frey’s skull and crushed his face into a bloody smear on the table. A dozen Frey men were dead in a second.

Crossbow bolts whizzed through the air and Dacey’s heart leapt into her throat. “Robb!” She cried, but she should have saved her breath. The Young Wolf took Merret Frey by the belt and used him as a shield. The fat man had four bolts springing from his back already. Then the King was away, sliding under the table to them.

“To the King!” She meant to cry, but half the words failed her, and she found herself screaming “King! King!” over and over. The Greatjon took a bolt to the shoulder and went down as they charged the door. A fully armored knight stepped out to greet them, battleax in hand. The Smalljon threw a flagon of mulled wine in his face and bull-rushed him, throwing him to the earth like a sack of flour. Up above in the gallery Ser Wendel Manderly and the White Harbour knight led the charge against the bards, plowing through them as they struggled to ready their crossbows.

Still, bolts stormed in from behind and they pushed through the door. Raynald Westerling threw himself over the king and was rewarded with three short black shafts. They were out the door and into the corridor then, and they pressed on. A hundred paces further and a band of Northmen appeared, Bolton men in pink and black. “We’re here to help,” their leader said, walking forward as if to join the guards. But no, there were to be no Boltons here, and these men were too ready for this treachery to be friends. The King and the Smalljon and her all shared a glance, realizing the same truth of it at once. “Traitor!” She screamed, and charged forward, the Smalljon and Lucas Blackwood right behind her. The Bolton men reacted with little surprise, snarling and drawing swords. Only three could fight at a time, and Dacey resolved to kill at least one of these traitors before she died.

Dacey’s opponent, a big brute in plate, swung a heavy battleax toward her face. She turned the ax with her dagger and thrust her elbow into his windpipe. She had no armor and they had no time. She had to win this quickly or not at all. The brute stumbled, then crushed her face with a mailed fist. Pain exploded from behind her eyes and she fell, down, down… she dimly registered an armored boot coming down to crush her dead...

But then the Young Wolf stepped over her with an ax taken from a fallen enemy and split the man’s helm in two. All at once it ended, and the enemy was routing down the hall. Dacey felt a hand under her arm. “Get up, Get up!” her King screamed, and she obeyed.

“Go on, go on ahead,” she gasped, her mind fogged with pain. She had not died, but she had not killed her man, either, and she was no use to her King like this. “Leave me, Leave...”

“I’m not leaving anyone who can walk,” the King hissed through clenched teeth.

“You need...”

“If you want me to hurry, get moving,” The King growled. Dacey’s jaw flexed and she found her feet. The dizziness faded. Her face bled freely and her whole body ached, but at least her feet could move.

They all shuffled on. Dacey heard the Greatjon screaming behind them as he made a desperate last stand at the door. The King nearly stopped in his tracks at the sound but the Smalljon checked him with a shoulder and pushed him forward. The Freys hadn’t been ready. Only terrified servants and parlormaids blocked their path. But they would meet men who could fight at the door to the courtyard, Dacey thought grimly, and when the guard stopped to fight them, the Freys would catch up in a heartbeat.

“Lucas? Lucas!” the King yelled. “Where is Ser Lucas?

Their answer came in the sound of clashing steel from behind them. With a shock Dacey realized that quiet Lucas Blackwood had slipped away from the back of the group to hold off their pursuers. Again, the King moved as if to halt but the Smalljon and others caught him and pressed him forward.

“He was like a brother to me,” the King growled, “He was-”

“He was brave,” Catelyn scolded, “Make his bravery mean something.”

Two men guarded the door, armed with spear and shield, and the Northmen fell on them like thunder. The Frey men held for a heartbeat, then broke. Desperation had made the Northmen strong. There could be no mercy, no breaking, no relenting. Steel armor was good, but frenzy was better. Dacey took a long gash on her arm, but she scarcely minded it as she drove her knife into the guard’s neck.

The door opened and half a hundred Frey men greeted them in the yard. Dacey slammed the door shut again as soon as she opened it, quarrels thudding into the woodwork. “We need a new plan,” she urged.

“The stables,” The Smalljon growled, his legs already moving. The Northmen surged after him, realizing his intent. A community of smiths, liveries, and various shops huddled in the shadow of the Twins just outside the walls, and a small sally port let out near one of the stables there. If they could escape to that door, they could steal horses and ride as far and as fast as they liked.

Chaos reigned in the Twins, servants rushing this way, guards rushing that way. The Stark men stumbled upon a score of Tully men and nearly gutted them before they realized what they were. The King’s face had become ash and his eyes were red. His uncle, his cousins, and so many friends had been left behind in that cursed dining room. A heart like the King’s could only take so much before it broke in two.

Grieving could come later. For the nonce, it seemed that their pursuers had lost the scent. Sounds of chaos and confusion came from every direction, no more before than behind. The King and his guard had proper weapons now, and any Frey man they ran into was cut down quickly before any general alarm could be raised. How long had it been since the King’s fateful dance? Moments or hours, Dacey could not say.

The sally port was right where the Smalljon remembered it. He must have marked it on their way in. They poured out in a rushing tumble, bloodied and gasping for breath. No Frey or Bolton men were in sight, the path was clear. Just a short distance along the riverside to the squat brown building that held their salvation. Just a hundred paces, just eighty now, just...

A man in Frey colors stepped out of the stables, flanked by a dozen men in full gear. To their left a dozen more emerged from around the corner of the fortress wall. Their clear leader smirked cruelly. Hosteen Frey. The biggest Frey and the dumbest, with a battleax for a face and a flagstone for a brain. Even alone and on equal terms, he was a match for any of their party, but fighting him and his band like this… this was hopeless. They could charge in an attempt to die fighting, but that was it.

“When you ran, like a little girl,” Hosteen stated, his voice slurred, “I figgered you was going for the main gate, or the stables. Figgered everyone was going to try and get you at the gate, so I went to the stables.” Hosteen took a crossbow from a man-at-arms at his side. “So I guess I get to answer yer question, Wolfie:” He smiled broadly. “It’s me as gets to kill you.”

The Northmen pulled into a tight knot around their king to prevent a clean shot. Hosteen lowered the crossbow, annoyance clear on his face. “Now come on then, I mean to ransom the rest of you lot, what’s all this? Lay down your arms and there’ll be mercy a plenty. The wolf pelt’s the only one I want.”

“Rot in hell,” Patrek Mallister stated, just loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the river beside them.

“Right then,” Hosteen sniffed and loosed a quarrel into the Smalljon’s shoulder. “More fun this way.”

“For the King! The King in the North!” Dacey screamed along with all the King’s men, and then they clashed. She swiped a sword aside with her scavenged buckler and hit her opponent's shoulder with a covered thrust, but the blow did not cut through the mail. The wound in her arm ached, sapped her strength. The Frey man returned her ferocity in equal measure, and her whole body quivered with each blow she blocked. The guard of the King fought more like drunken brawlers than like nobles, with mud and blood mixing at their feet as they slipped and crashed and stumbled.

She deflected another blow, and another, but she felt herself waning. Her opponent was a man nearly as tall as herself, and he was fresh. He had not been trying to run and fight in a torn dress, had not been punched in the face by a mailed fist. Victory was impossible. She would die here. She would die. She would...

“AWwWooOOOOooooo!”

Where the howl came, fear followed. These Frey men had heard that cry before. They had seen the power of the beast that made it. A quiver of terror ran through the Frey men, enough that they began to be pushed back. Dacey praised the gods in her heart and swung with newfound strength, her sword bashing the man’s helm back.

“Come on you whoresons, fight like ya’ mean it!” Hosteen bellowed, knocking the Smalljon to the ground with a contemptuous shove. “Fight like ya-”

The man’s head came off in a single snap of Grey Wind’s mighty jaws as the Direwolf appeared behind them. Another man it crushed with a paw the size of a bear’s, and then the Frey men were running, the beast running down one of them after another.

“For the NORTH!” Dacey screamed, laughing and crying with what remained of the King’s honor guard.

The king himself sat not far away, cradling a pool of red hair, weeping openly. All at once the men silenced their revelry. Lady Catelyn Stark had been cut nearly in two, from shoulder to navel. She lived for the moment, gasping for breath in great sobs, but that would not last for long.

“My son,” She breathed, “My SON, you must live. You must flee. Flee. Save the girls, Robb, The girls, save...” and then her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she stopped.

The Smalljon, bruised and bleeding in a hundred places, stooped to pick the corpse of Catelyn Stark up. The King watched her body leave his arms, worldless. When the King did speak, it was without breath, almost inaudible. “She took the blade meant for me, she..”

“We have to move, your Grace,” Dacey insisted. “We have to go.”

The King blinked, nodded, then shook his head and stood. There were horses aplenty for all of their small party to mount. They strapped Lady Stark’s lifeless body to the back of one like so much wheat. The horses wheeled and bucked, unused to the presence of the great wolf. Robb’s own horse, a small chestnut pacer, nearly threw him into the river at the first chance, and all of his guard’s hearts leapt their throats.

But the King controlled the beast with a tug of the reins and brought the horse around to face them.

Then a quarrel sprouted from his belly.

One of Hosteen’s men, sprawled on the ground, half-crushed by Grey Wind, had found the crossbow and shot Robb dead in the stomach from half a hundred yards away. Dacey watched in horror as the King lost control of his horse and the stupid beast reared and threw both itself and the King into the raging river twenty feet below.

“ROBBB!” She screamed, and whipped her horse around to the river’s edge. The chestnut lay broken on the stones below, but the King, the King… “I can’t see him!” She yelled. “The King is lost!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a buffer of like 10k, will be posting every Friday, or Thursday if I get impatient. this story will focus on three perspective characters. Dacey, Jon Snow, and Arya Stark. Thanks to the many, many fans of ASOIAF that I've tallked over this idea with, most especially captaingondor, my ASOIAF consultant, beta, best friend, and wife. If you already know some of the coming plot due to past discussions with me, try not to spoil it for the others.
> 
> Though I think that most of you who are in the dark might be able to guess at the substance of this fic based on the title alone.


	2. Forks Red and Blue

Twenty-four days and a hundred leagues on the road to Riverrun, but it might as well have been an age and halfway around the world for how tired Dacey felt at the end of it. She had come too far from Bear Island, she felt with certainty. What was a half-wilding barbarian from an island off the edge of the earth doing all the way down here in the Riverlands, marching with a near-broken host of a few thousands?

The wound on her arm had healed clean by now, and most of the bruising had faded entirely, but she still felt the wounds in her bones. It did not help that they had spent the last month on a forced march from the Twins, hounded by the Frey cavalry at every opportunity. Dacey counted herself lucky to be alive, but less lucky to still be fighting. What purpose did this war serve, now? Who was even left, of those that had begun it?

Still, the sight of Riverrun’s towers filled her with new hope. How long had it been since they had broken the siege on this place? A year? Two? It looked as though it had much improved in the meantime, with bright banners blowing in the autumn wind, and a cool lake reflecting the smooth stones of the walls. Even as her heart lifted, she knew that it could not last, and already she dreaded the war council that would come on the next day.

The castle welcomed them with open arms. A hot bath, a warm meal, and a prayer before the heart tree were her first priorities. Of these the prayer lasted the longest, for she had left too many truths unsaid for too long. The terrors she had inflicted upon innocent Westerlanders, the despair that she had known seeing her King fall to his death, the fear she held for the future, all these and more poured from her in a rushing tumble of emotion.

When she rose, the sun had set and the weirfires were burning, shedding their dim orange light around the grove. She had not visited the godswood alone. A full thousand men of the Northern host had prayed beside her, all muttering their litany of confession and sorrow. Greybeards and boys suffered alike. This war had not been long, but it had been hard. Twenty thousands had encamped at the Twins under the banner of the Young Wolf, and now less than a quarter that number had huddled near Riverrun, disunified and leaderless. The rest had turned their coats, or died, or been scattered to gods-only-knew-where.

And yet, she knew they were lucky. Had Grey Wind not led the host, there would have been more deserters still.

But the Old Gods had eased her mind, and the bath had eased her body, and she resolved to feel nothing, good or ill, until morning.

Morning came too soon, however, and with it came a war council even worse than she had expected. A hundred feuding lords of various stations, all talking over one another and pacing about. Surrender, or fight? Run, or stand? Every notion of strategy had been brought up, every fact of their situation discussed, but still, no agreement could be reached. There were a thousand paths and one they might choose from, and yet there might not be a true path among them.

"Keep fighting?" Lord Bracken near-hissed the words. The grey-haired Lord of Stone Hedge commanded respect. His booming voice had become a rallying point for the lords who favored surrender. "I hate these Lannisters as much or more than anyone else here. Their dog burnt my home and killed my smallfolk, and the idea of surrender makes my blood boil. But if we fight on, we may as well run ourselves through here and now and save time. Even if we were to fight, where could we turn without leaving our back exposed to the enemy? The Ironborn, the Reachmen, the bastard of Bolton, the new queen… anywhere we advance the enemy will fall in behind us.”

The Smalljon's eyes glittered. "I did not take you for a craven, Lord Bracken," he said, his voice low.

“Others take you,” Bracken cursed, "If I am a craven then all men are, save for madmen. I swore an oath to the King in the North and served him faithfully for his whole life. But that King is dead and without issue. I swore an oath to Lord Tully, but he is the guest of a Rat Cook. Dying for the sake of the dead is folly and not bravery. Living for the sake of the living is a better cause."

Dacey felt the Smalljon bristle, his strong arms tensing as if for a fight, but the words of Lord Jonos Bracken had found purchase in the assembly. The gathered men were bloodied and broken. They had not run. They had fought, and fought, and fought again for King in the North, and they were tired of fighting. Many of the Stark men had left dead sons and fathers and brothers behind at the Twins. Loss could make a man hungry for vengeance, and she saw that light in the Smalljon’s eyes, but there was no light in the eyes of most of the Lords anymore. So long as the goal of Riverrun had sat before them, they had marched on in grim silence, but now that they were here, with no one to rally or lead them, their purpose was faltering.

Dacey wished that she could speak as Lady Stark had, and give wise counsel that might turn the tide, but no words came. She had an ax for a tongue.

"King Stark lives still."

All heads in the room turned to the side of the table where Jeyne Westerling stood, slender as a sapling. The girl had been crying, but now she wore a bright smile, despite the gaze of every man in the room bearing down upon her. Gods help her, she could not be a day past sixteen, Dacey thought. "The gods sent the King’s Direwolf as a protector, yes?” She stated, daring anyone to challenge her. “Is it not known that a mere pup of a wolf saved the life of Bran Stark and Lady Catelyn? Robb’s protector lives still, and so long as the protectors of the Stark live, we must believe that the Starks still live as well, whatever else appears."

No, Dacey thought, that would not do. Jeyne did not understand their gods, not yet. The Green Way was not a way of prayer and comfort.

"Have you not heard?" Lord Bracken asked. "The Wolf disappeared from the camp last night. Do not pretend to me that this omen is good." Dacey had not heard this, and she frowned. Grey Wind’s disappearance would fill the camp with fear and uncertainty.

"Grey Wind did not go wild, like an untamed beast, when Robb disappeared into the river,” Jeyne replied, “And he has not gone wild now, merely slipped away quietly. If Grey Wind has left us now it is only because we are safe, and he goes to rally others to us. King Robb always prayed for wisdom, and for guidance, and it seems the gods give us guidance still."

Better, Dacey thought. If the Old Gods granted any boon, they granted wisdom and discernment. The Lords who had campaigned most heartily for surrender looked between each other. Jeyne had not given them confidence, but she had given them uncertainty.

"I have naught to say of gods and signs." It was Brynden the Blackfish who raised his voice now. The man was perhaps the most respected commander in the whole alliance, and yet he had held his counsel in reserve until now. Whatever this simply-dressed man said now would carry as much force as a charge of plated knights. "Our plight is not half so hopeless as good Lord Bracken presents. We have a mere five thousands here, true but many of the survivors of the slaughter by the Twins will join us here yet, and there are another five thousands at least spread between various garrisons in the Riverlands. Raventree, Stone Hedge, Pinkmaiden, Acorn Hall, and others all still fly the Direwolf."

"Those keeps did little enough to halt Tywin in his first march." Donnel Locke seemed only barely able to keep his tone civil. "Why should we trust them now?"

Brynden met Locke’s anger with cool composure. "My nephew had expected peace and was given war. Consequently, his bannermen were poorly garrisoned and provisioned, and their castles fell swiftly. But this is no longer the case. The Lannisters will need to fight for every inch, and their armies have suffered worse than ours in this war.”

“This is your plan then?” Bracken growled, “Expect me and mine to hold off tens of thousands of Tyrells and Lannisters and Freys and Boltons? They have us outnumbered ten to one. We can’t face them in the field, and letting them siege us down one is a strategy that only ends with all our heads on pikes, Blackfish.”

“You speak truthfully,” Brynden agreed, “The Freys and the Boltons and Karstarks have twelve thousands between them, the Lannisters have double that, and the Tyrells field more than all the others combined. But they cannot bring it to bear against us. What are a hundred thousand men but a hundred thousand mouths to feed in a land where every pig and sheep has been taken into our protection? I say let them come and starve outside our walls.”

The Smalljon spoke again, his voice more confident and powerful now, "And who among us could trust a treaty these whoresons offered? Tywin forgives and blesses a Rat Cook and we’re expected to trust the terms he offers?" He earned a few cheers and Dacey could sense the mood in the room shifting. The song of the Rat Cook was an ancient and infamous tale of a man of the Night’s Watch who killed, cooked, and served some men who had been his guests and then fed them their unknowing father. Guest right was a sacred thing, and violators of it so rare that there was no name for those who broke it in such a violent fashion. Walder and anyone he treated with was accursed before gods and men.

“As soon as word came of the Red Wedding, I had taken action,” the Blackfish continued. “Lord Blackwood has marched east to Harrenhal, which the Lannisters have left almost completely empty. From there, our armies can cut the fat from the Crownlands. Let us live for a time at the expense of King Joffrey, and see how he likes it. The Crownlands have rested easy from this war for long enough.”

Maester Vyman suddenly rose from his bench, startled. “Milord Tully,” he said, “I would not pretend to advise you in military matters, but I am afraid I must take this opportunity to share news from King’s Landing. Had there been a time for a man of my station to interrupt I should have told you, but now I can no longer stay silent and must correct you. If this plan should be enacted, it would not be at King Joffrey’s expense. King Joffrey is dead! He died poisoned by the strangler at his own wedding, and they name Sansa Stark and her husband the Imp as his assassins! Joffrey’s child brother sits the throne, the Imp stands for trial, and Lady Sansa has fled the city!”

The cheers that then shook the room were deafening. “Vengeance!” they cried, “Vengeance for the Young Wolf! Vengeance for a brother! Vengeance for a father!” Dacey cheered with the rest of them. Such joy was folly, she knew. The boy-king Joffrey barely ranked next to the Old Lion, or Mace or Roose or even Walder. But still, it seemed in that moment that if a barely-flowered girl could kill the king, then how strong could the Lannisters truly be?

The gathering of lords lasted long into the evening, with numerous plans being drawn up and agreed upon. Daring, almost hopeful comments floated through the air. A few key battles and the will of these Lannisters would be broken. A taste of autumn snow would send these Tyrells riding south again. Grey Wind would rally them an army of Children from the woods, or perhaps a Queen of Stark blood.

"We don't have the men." To Dacey's surprise, the Smalljon was the grimmest of all the King’s old guard, when they gathered later for cups. The Smalljon, Lord Umber now, wore a dour expression despite the ale, and she noted that like her he wore mail under his simple clothes even when at his ease. There had been scars left at the Twins that would not heal easily. "Even if every man of us kills ten of them,” the Smalljon said, “they'll still have blood to spare. We can bleed them and starve them and lead them on a merry chase, but in the end, it will be us who starves, not them." The giant took a drink.

"In truth, I had thought much the same," Dacey replied.

“But you still mean to keep fighting?”

Dacey shrugged, then looked off into space. “I’m the daughter of a minor house. When I was a girl I thought I should never see any of the beauties my goodsister spoke of. I thought I should love someone, perhaps, if I were lucky, and live a simple, useful life surrounded by sentinels and pines. This war has been a terrible, awful thing, from beginning to end. Every moment has been nauseating boredom or sheer terror with nothing between. I cannot go back, Jon, even if I should want to. I could never live so simply and peacefully. There can be no retreat for me.”

Jon’s eyes glinted as he peered at her over his mug of ale. “There will be no retreat for me either. I’m a Lord now, but what does that mean? That I could go home and concern myself with taxes and plows and poachers?” Jon shook his head. “No, something awoke in me in the Twins, Dacey. I’m hungry, hungry for war, hungry for vengeance, and I cannot go home until my hunger is sated. If I die, I die, but at least I will die with an ax in my hand and my enemy’s blood on my face.”

What a fine pair we make, Dacey thought. Two giants of the North come a thousand miles south, unwilling to go home. “So is that all then?” Dacey asked. “We seek to die well?”

“I did not say that.” Jon smiled. “We could win, yet. You see it too, you know what it is we need.”

Dacey sighed. "I suppose I do. Bolton’s bastard holds Winterfell, last I heard, but he only has a few hundred to his name. There are strong men in the North who could resist him and should they rally they could go south to the Neck and oust the Ironborn, and then we might siege the Twins from both sides. But who could rally the North? Glover? My Mother? No. But that is the truest problem we face, that we are a kingdom without a king. We need a leader, both now and later. The Blackfish can lead the Riverlords for the nonce, but making peace will require a King.”

“We need a Stark,” Umber agreed, “And a Stark we shall have.”

“Lady Sansa, you mean?” A bare slip of a girl that most of the North had never even seen. But if they could find her...

“Nay. I would rather have a Stark who’s not fucked a Lannister. I would have King Robb’s brother and his nearest equal.”

Dacey felt heat color her cheeks. Such talk would be poison if the Lady Sansa could be found. A Stark was a Stark, and there could be a Queen in the North as easily as a King. But no, Dacey understood Umber’s point. "You have written to Last Hearth, then?"

The Smalljon drank heavily from his mug, his somber face cracking into a broad smile. "Aye. I have.”

\--

The Wolf hunted in the dark under the light of a full moon, accompanied by a hundred of her kin. It felt glorious to run, to feel the power in her legs, and the scent on her nose. The pack had eaten well this month, on human flesh as much as anything else. Wolves ran from men, even as deer ran from wolves, but dead men, dead men were fair game, and there were thousands of those upon the land these days. Strong smells of death had taunted her for days now. A great slaughter had occurred and a great feast awaited them, as long as they could get there while the dead remained.

Other scents enticed her as well. Her brother hunted not far from here, and a part of her ached for him. But she had dozens of brothers and sisters now, and he ran away from the corpses. She had her pack’s needs to consider.

Soon they came to the killing field, or part of it at least, that had washed up downstream from where they had died. Dozens of corpses lined the banks. Her pack chased off the dogs and the ravens and the vultures. This feast would belong to the wolves. Humans were tough and stringy and of late often encased in those strange metal shells, but even so, they could feed for days here. Her small kin tore at the bodies that lay in the dirt, but she pushed deeper into the river, and she stalked among them, twice as tall and powerful as the largest of them. She would choose her meal carefully.

But then a scent, fainter than any other and more curious, tickled her nose. Something about it teased her sense. Her other’s brother, she thought, the dead boy whom she mourned for in the waking world at times. He had the scent of death upon him, but he could not be far. She split off from her pack, pushing deep into muddy water where the loam came up almost to her chest. A hundred other more enticing scents tempted her, but she remained focused, pushing aside reeds and mud to uncover the body of a young man, nearly submerged in the mud. The corpse was old, and degraded, with blood pooling beneath the skin to match the red-flecked hair on the top of the head. She knew the scent, knew this boy. She caught up the body in her mouth carefully, as though she were lifting a pup, and pulled it to shore, to lay gingerly upon the riverbank.

She whined softly, nudging him with her nose. She licked his face to clear it and paced around him to wake him...

But no, this one was dead, and she let out a great howl for him, joined in by all her pack. Her brothers and sisters, her true pack, they too howled, and she felt it in her heart.

But mourning could not last long. New scents came down on the wind. Scents of men, of living men, and she could hear them too, jangling in their steel and leather. Her pack had to flee. Such were the laws of the world. After one great howl they ran from the riverbank, deep into the dark woods, and away from the men and their fire. Her mind became more clear, more focused, and all memories of the strange, drowned boy flowed away with the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, these chapters are entirely in order. This second bit here takes place many days before the first bit. Indeed, all of next chapter takes place before the first bit of this chapter. That's an unfortunate necessity in this story.
> 
> Look forward to your comments below, it should be a treat.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter.


	3. The Last Wolf

Arya had cried for a week when they fled the Twins, and then the tears had run out. Nothing had come in their place. Not rage, not sorrow, only emptiness. Mother had died, and Robb too, or so Sandor said. Father and Mother and Bran and Rickon and Robb. Sansa was as good as dead, and Jon was little better. Five dead, two enslaved, and one free. She snorted at the thought. She was not free. She was the Hound’s prisoner, day and night. He cuffed her awake in the morning, swore at her till she fed the horses, and then rode behind her the whole day, his tiny hateful eyes watching her every move. They ate little and talked less. If Sandor spoke at all it was to scold her or yell at her to hide as a knight rode by. Arya did not speak at all.

Arya had plans. She had too many plans. Some days she planned to steal Craven, the palfrey Sandor had taken from the Frey camp, and ride away into the night. She would spend hours contemplating the idea. She would ride away to Acorn Hall, or Riverrun, to her great-uncle Blackfish. She would run away to a person she had never met, to a place she had never been. But then she would lie in bed at night, unbound and awake, with Sandor snoring a few feet away, and then she would go to sleep. She would determine that she would kill Sandor, her hand going white on Needle’s hilt as she imagined a thousand different ways she could stab him while he slept. It would be so easy, she knew, and so just. They were not far, now, from where Sandor had killed Mycah, had laughed about it. She would kill him and whatever came after would be worth it. But she always left Needle in its sheath. However long she plotted, she always went to sleep in the end.

Sleep remained her only refuge, her only solace from emptiness. When she slept she was the Wolf and the Wolf did not cry. The Wolf was strong, and other things cried when it ran them down. It did not die, it killed. The Wolf’s brothers were all alive, and she was surrounded by a pack of hundreds of wolves, true wolves. Arya only had her one dog, and she wished she could be rid of him.

“Those are mountains,” She said one day, as she fed the horses. The rain had been a curtain around them for two days before this, and when the weather cleared it had almost seemed as though the mountains had snuck upon them in the night, huge and imposing as they were. Were these the Mountains of the Moon? They must be, there were no other mountains this tall in the Riverlands. She had seen those mountains on her first trip south with Father. The mountains had changed not at all since then and she almost hated them for it.

“Aye, those are mountains,” the Hound said, without turning. “You’re not blind, at least, nor mute. That’s good. Lady Arryn might not pay as well for damaged goods.”

Arya’s hand froze on its way to the saddlebags. Lady Arryn. Her aunt, her mother’s sister, a woman she had never met. Was this what she had wanted? No. Lady Lysa was no wolf, no pack-mate. Lady Lysa was not Mother. Mother was captured or dead along with Robb.

“Why aren’t we going back to save my mother?” She insisted, not for the first time.

The Hound did not reply, he just kept packing up his bedroll.

“If you were a proper wolf you’d stay and fight,” she said, turning back to the horses and scowling.

The Hound sneered, his blacked face cracking and leaking. “Ain’t ever had anyone say I didn’t like fighting before.”

“You’re only brave if you’re fighting someone who can’t fight back. You won’t fight anything that could kill you.”

“I didn’t name my horse Stranger because I was afraid of death,” Sandor growled. “I’m just not in a hurry to go meet him.” He exhaled sharply in something like a laugh. “Not as much in a hurry as you, anyway.”

Something hard was gnawing at the hollow space in the center of her heart and she felt her face darken with resolve. She would run away from him tonight, Arya decided. She would steal Craven and ride off with the mountains to her back. She could remember the way, she felt sure, and she could ride through the night if needed. The Wolf was strong because it feared no man, and Arya was a wolf too if a little smaller. What would it be like, if the Wolf were to come upon Walder Frey? The Wolf could fit a man’s waist in her mouth. Arya idly clicked her teeth together as she fed the horse.

All-day Arya sat on Craven’s back trying to imagine what her aunt would be like. Would she be tall and wise like Mother? Or silly and air-headed like Sansa? No, she would be strange, she would not be Arya’s. She would be some woman and not one that Arya knew or liked. Arya would rather go back to Acorn Hall and Lady Smallwood than to this unknown aunt in the Eyrie. Arryn or Smallwood, both were just as like to sell her to the Lannisters though, so it made no difference.

She had a cousin too, she remembered. The Arryns had a Robyn, just like she had Robb before he died. What did he look like, she wondered. She scowled. No, she decided, she did not care what he looked like. She wanted to see Robb again, not some fake. Could she even remember her own brother’s face now? His red curls, his brand-new beard he had been trying to grow? It had been almost two years since she had hugged him before leaving Winterfell. Him and then Jon. Could she remember what they smelled like?

Night fell and the Hound was asleep almost instantly, his breathing heavy and steady. He did not watch her as closely as he once had. He did not even bind her up in a cloak when he went to sleep. Craven welcomed her with a low snort as she crept over to him.

“What do you say, Craven?” she whispered, “You want to go for a midnight ride?”

In a moment she had mounted and eased the horse into a walk, then a canter, and then a gallop. Craven was a lighter and faster horse than Sandor’s monstrous war-beast, and Arya was a lighter passenger by far. If the Hound woke, he might pursue, but he’d never catch them. The wind pulled through her hair, and she felt tears leak from her eyes as they bounced up and over the hillside. The moon and stars lit her way, and for a moment Arya almost felt as though she were The Wolf again, but this time in the waking world.

She just had to get back to the Twins and find mother, or brother, if they still lived. She could free them, or at least she could die trying. She had left so many behind. Gendry and Sansa and Hot Pie and so many others. She would not leave her mother behind, not now…

Craven suddenly skidded to a stop, and Arya had to pull hard on his reins to regain control. The horse’s great head turned left and then right, fighting to turn around, but Arya would not let him. There was no lie to Craven’s name, at least, Arya thought with a grimace. “Who’s there?” she called out.

Nothing but crickets and frogs answered her call. What had spooked Craven so? Was there a shadowcat lurking in the trees up ahead? Arya looked behind, half expecting to see the Hound in hot pursuit, but no sign of the giant appeared.

She turned back forward, and there it was, slinking out of the trees. Not a hound, nor a shadowcat, nor a bandit. A massive creature, long, and covered in thick fur that glimmered in the moonlight. The beast had huge, gleaming eyes, each the size of her fist, and a long snout filled with sharp teeth.

Arya froze. “Nymeria,” she half-whispered, fighting to retain control over her horse. But no, this was not Nymeria. Nymeria’s fur had been a lighter grey, and her eyes a more reddish-yellow. But this wolf’s eyes were golden, and he was huge, huger than Craven, and almost as large as Stranger.

The direwolf circled her, sniffing the air, and eventually coming beside her. Craven quivered near underneath her, barely restrained, but Arya felt nothing but joy when the beast turned its great head and touched its wet nose to her face. She reached past its head to scratch at the neck, and the direwolf lifted its head up appreciatively.

“Grey Wind,” she pronounced, speaking the wolf’s name like a prayer. “I’m going to save Robb, can you take me to him?”

Grey Wind tilted his head questioningly. Arya bit her lip. Was Robb already dead, she wondered? Was that why Grey Wind had come to her, because they were the last of the wolves? Arya wondered what had happened to Nymeria still. Had some Lord organized a hunt and run her down? No, she could not bring herself to think about that. She closed her eyes and hugged Grey Wind’s head.

“Come on then,” she told Grey Wind after a moment had passed. “We need to make a lot of headway before dawn or else the Hound will catch us.” She would feel better going into battle against the Freys with Grey Wind by her side. The Direwolf was bigger than Sandor, bigger than the Mountain, even, and probably smarter too. Craven had calmed, somewhat, and Arya eased him into a slow walk.

Grey Wind trotted forward and then turned, cutting them off so that Craven stopped dead in his tracks. “Come on!” Arya hissed, gritting her teeth and kicking Craven’s sides. Stupid horse, why did he have to be such a coward? “Why are you blocking me?” she near-screamed at the direwolf.

Grey Wind merely tilted his head, panting, and let his great tongue roll out.

Arya cursed and turned Craven to go around the direwolf, but Grey followed her, remaining in Craven’s way.

“Stupid wolf!” she yelled and then turned Craven around completely, straining as the nervous horse pulled this way and that. Suddenly, the wolf let out a sharp bark from behind, and then Craven’s nerves finally snapped. Arya lost control completely as the horse bolted down the road from whence they had come, carrying Arya on it’s back like a loose sack of oats.

Nearly half a mile of countryside had passed by before Arya regained control, and when she turned around, Grey Wind was right there, blocking her path and wearing the same stupid doggy grin. She tried again to get around him, but no matter where she turned, he herded them back toward where the Hound had made camp.

“Let me THROUGH!” She screamed, but the wolf did not budge. She dismounted and picked up rocks and threw them at him, but he just bowled her over in the road, pressing her to the ground and laying his massive snout on her to pin her in place. She pummeled the sides of his snout screaming, but he just let out a low bark and shook it off. Why would Grey Wind not let her pass? Was it a coward too? Did it want to leave Mother to die? Tears came up again, for the first time in days, and when they came they would not stop. Why had she been left alone, why would Grey Wind not let her get up and find Mother, find Robb?

Grey Wind let her up again and she pulled herself into a sitting position, wiping her tears away into his great woolly neck. How long she spent like that she did not know, but after a time the tears stopped and she was left with nothing but weariness. No rage, no fear, only a need to sleep and rest.

Mother and Robb were dead. She knew that, now. There was no use pretending otherwise, and there never had been. She would have died too if she had gone to the Twins. Grey Wind must have known that. She stroked his fur lovingly. “Where are we going to go?” she wondered aloud. She needn’t stay with the Hound any longer. She had a wolf. He was bigger and stronger than any knight, and could hunt for her too, she supposed. He was bigger than the wolf in her dreams, even, though not nearly so savage.

Grey Wind lowered his head and pushed her forward with it, pushed her up onto her feet and back in the direction of the Hound’s camp.

Arya sighed and pushed his nose away, but Grey Wind was persistent. She had to go with the Hound, for some reason. Or was it that Grey Wind meant to kill the Hound? The thought made her uncomfortable for reasons she could not really understand. With a great sigh, she rose to her feet. Grey Wind gave a sharp bark of delight and bounded upwards, chasing Craven around until the horse came back to her.

As she mounted, she wondered what awaited her at the camp. Had Sandor awoken? Was he looking for her? She did not think so, and neither did she think that Grey Wind would kill him. But what purpose could there be in going with Sandor to the Vale? She had never heard of a dog being so focused on such a particular goal, let alone a direwolf. Nymeria had run away after only a few rocks and curses. Arya swallowed. She was glad, though, that Grey Wind had not run away.

She need not have worried about the Hound. The big scarred man slept in much the same way that she had left him, and he did not wake when she tied Craven up, nor when she slipped into her bedroll. Grey Wind sat on the edge of the camp, watching her. If she ran again, would he chase her down and bring her back here, she wondered? But after a moment the great wolf laid down into a crouch and regarded her calmly with those great golden eyes of his.

Mother and Robb were dead, she reminded herself, but at least she was not totally alone. So long as she had Grey Wind, it was almost as though she had a piece of Robb with her, and he would always keep her safe.

\---

Death, death, and more death yet to come. The Night’s Watch, then the smallfolk, then the wildlings. Soon it would be the Night’s Watch’s turn to die again. Smallwood and the others worked day and night to be ready, but they would not be ready, could not be ready. Mance had more wildlings to throw at the Wall than the Night’s Watch had arrows, and that was assuming the raiders did not simply force their way through the gate at the first press. A few dozen stewards and builders would not hold for long.

And what were they even defending? The North had fallen to threats from the south while they had defended from the North. Robb, Rickon, Bran, Father, Catelyn... every one of them had been murdered. Did Arya live? It seemed impossible. Sansa lived yet, but Jon took little pleasure in the idea. Of what value was life as an unwilling wife to your family’s murderers? Traitors and Ironborn and bastards ruled in the North and in the Riverlands the situation was even worse. Winter is coming, Jon thought glumly, and he was half ready to welcome it.

Futile as the efforts of the builders were, Jon envied them. The builders, at least, had something to busy themselves with, something to focus on. Jon’s only activity was contemplating the coming destruction of the Night’s Watch, his only companion despair. The gloom of his sickbed weighed on him heavy enough that he wished for ale or wine with which to dull his mind.

Ygritte’s arrow had condemned him to bedrest, and Ygritte’s death had condemned him to melancholy. He should have liked to see her in a silk dress, he thought idly, would have liked to marry her and make her a lady. But he had known from the start that such a thing was not possible. He had intended to betray her from before he even knew her name. Ygritte’s loyalty to Mance ran deeper than any oath, and though Jon might have been willing to break his oaths to run south with her, he could not turn his steel against his sworn brothers. Turning on her had been the worst thing he had ever done, and his only regret was that he had not done it sooner, before he had known her, before he had loved her. How many thousand like her would die attacking the Wall in a few weeks? How many of his brothers would die with them?

He forced himself to get up, to take the crutch by the door. Aemon had permitted him one hour of liberty from his cell. Any more movement risked re-opening the wounds in his leg, and though Jon would have willingly taken that chance, he knew that his Brothers would tie him to his bed if that was required. Better an hour of freedom and life than none at all. His wound throbbed as he tied his boots and fixed his cloak, but Jon pushed through and made it outside. The wind in the yard cut through him with sheer, delightful agony, and though he winced with every step, the pain felt good, felt like something he deserved.

Familiar faces dotted the yard, though not so many as there had once been. Samwell and Lord Mormont and Grenn and a few hundred others had left on a great ranging but only Jarman Buckwell had returned thus far, and he spoke only of death. Half of those that had stayed home from the first great ranging had left on a second one led by Bowen Marsh, and none of them had returned yet either. But still, Jon could put names to most of the faces. Halder, Pypar, and Satin, the boy from Mole’s town, were all clustered up on one of the watchtowers. His heart lifted to see them, but a part of him wished they were away. There would be dark days coming when the wildings broke through, and then after them… he shivered even as the wind let up for a moment.

“Jon!” Pyp yelled, waving happily. “Jon! You will want to see this!”

If these crutches were wings, Jon thought, perhaps he could fly up there and see what Pyp was on about. “Just tell me, Pyp,” he called back. “It will take me too long to get to the top with these crutches.”

“There’s a whole column of men approaching. They’ve got a big flag with a… a man on it, and their garb is all red and black.”

Jon’s spine turned to steel in an instant. Black and pink were the colors of House Bolton, and red was near enough to pink as to make no difference. “Is it a grey man on red, or a pink man on black?” he shouted, the urgency surprising himself. “The flag, Pyp, the flag!” He shouted, louder this time. Would Bolton really have come all this way? But if he did, if he did… Jon swallowed.

“Grey on red!” Pyp called. “Which house is that, Lord Snow?”

Jon sighed relief flooding through him in a rush. “It's the Umbers, from Last Hearth. It’s not a man on the flag, it's a giant.” Mayhaps House Umber had seen fit to send them help? That would be a welcome thing indeed. Or perhaps they wished to offer his skin to Bolton as a tribute to their new overlord.

Every watchman dropped their meager duties and assembled in lines to watch the column approach. It was not a large company, fewer in number than the black brothers that had gone north with Mormont, but prouder and better armed. The sunlight glinted off a full hundred steel helms and spear points. Even so, Jon noted, few enough of them had the grey and red tabards of Umber men-at-arms. These were peasant levies with weapons and arms that had been passed down through their families for generations. And yet they were far more fearsome than the stewards and builders of the Night’s Watch that assembled to greet them. If a fight were to break out, it would be short.

“We’re here for the Bastard!” Their leader called out. He was a huge, one-eyed giant of a man who Jon knew by description. Mors ‘Crowfood’ Umber had an ugly reputation half a century long.

“We’re here for the Stark bastard!” Mors repeated, glaring at the assembled brothers.

John felt Pypar and Halder drawn in closer to him. What, did they think they could protect him? Halder might be thick and strong as an ox, but he was no castle wall. Jon pushed them both aside roughly and lurched forward, leaning heavily on his crutch. “Here I am,” he said, “A Black Brother of the Night’s Watch, a title used to mean something. But if you’ve come to war against the Black Brothers and carry me back to Bolton, I’ll go willingly. I will not have my brothers dying on my behalf.”

“Carry you to Bolton?” The Umber man cackled. “Aye, we’ll take you to the bastard alright, and hand you a sword to stick up his arse! King Robb is dead without heir or trueborn brother, and this being the case his will names you as his lawful and legitimate heir!” The big man knelt and drew his sword, holding it out by the blade as an offering. “Take up this sword, become our king, and avenge your brothers, Jon Stark.”

Jon felt nothing but cold wind. How long ago had it been now? Five years or six, it must be, since he and Robb had dueled with swords in the court of Winterfell. “You’ll never be Lord of Winterfell!” Robb had yelled at him then, reminding him of his place. He had been right to do so. Jon had been too proud by half then, had mistaken Robb’s and Father’s condescension for equality. The North required a trueborn heir, and love him though they might, he could not ever believe himself their equal. He had been too proud then; he was not proud now. He wanted Winterfell as his own, almost as bad as he wanted breath, but that by itself would not sway him.

The hilt of the offered sword taunted him, goaded him to take it up and carve a bloody path. Vengeance tempted him more than glory, now. Glory he did not deserve, not for breaking his oaths, but vengeance? Bran and Rickon and Robb all deserved an avenger. Bolton deserved a sword to his traitorous neck. Traitorous. The word was poison to Jon’s thought. He had been a traitor to Ygritte and the love she offered freely, had been a traitor to Mance and the others, would he be a traitor to his brothers now as well? A traitor to kill a traitor.

“My brothers are here,” Jon said, the words and in saying them he believed it. Gods forgive him, but what could he do? The promise these Umbers offered him was half a lie in any case. He could not take back the North with a hundred men, not even with all of Last Hearth at his back. “My brothers that live are here, in the Watch,” he repeated.

“Jon Snow has the right of it,” Donnal Noye’s voice called loud from behind Jon. “You can’t make the boy a king against his will, and he’s no oathbreaker.”

“I wish he were. Better an oathbreaker for a king than a corpse,” Mors replied. “And better a corpse than a Bolton. The flayed man turned on his own King while under guest right.” Mors spat, and then turned his gaze on Jon. “You know your oaths as well as any of these black brothers, don’t you? Then tell me, what does it mean to shield the realm’s o’ men if there’s no realm to shield? You can do more to help the Watch as an oathbreaker than you can as a Black Brother.” Mors gestured widely at the assembled levies. “A King might order every one of these before him to join the Watch.”

Jon froze. Whether he could save the North or no, whether he avenged Robb and Rickon and Bran or died trying… the Watch needed those men. A hundred true warriors atop the Wall would be worth ten thousand Wildlings. How many of the Black brothers at Castle Black could wield a sword properly? Ten? Twenty? The would-be volunteers grinned at one another and laughed. This had been Mors’ plan all along. He must have paid the families of these levies well for their service. With Winter howling down on them from the north, there would be many families in danger of starvation who could gladly sacrifice a young boy to the Watch for a barrel of grain.

“If you’ve aid to grant the Watch,” Jon growled, “You should give it to them for your own sake if not the realm’s. There are forty thousand wildlings behind that Wall and once they’re through there will be no restraining them. When they break through and the rape and the murder starts among your smallfolk, will you act then?” Of the Other creatures behind the Wall, Jon said nothing. The wildlings should be threat enough.

Mors sniffed. “D’you think an old cuss like me is scared of wildlings? We Umbers have killed Kings from beyond the Wall before, and we can do so again. Kings your men have let through, time and time again. These fine men would do more good in my castle than atop your block of ice.” He paused, “O’ course, if my king were to order me otherwise, that’d be a different matter.”

Jon glared the giant down. If he became king and ordered Mors to be shortened by a head, would Mors respect that? Close as he had been to taking the sword earlier, the very idea was hateful to him now. Robb would have ordered these men to hold the Wall, if he had known the situation. Robb would have cared.

But Robb was dead, with no one to avenge him. Arya, if she lived still, had nowhere to turn. Sansa was a prisoner. Gods. Jon closed his eyes. He had killed Ygritte for his oaths, could he doom his sisters? Could he break his oaths when it was nearly certain he would fail to save anyone? Why could Mors Umber not let him die as a man of the Watch, with something like a shred of intact honor?

“Take the damned sword, Jon.”

He turned. It was Donnal Noye who had spoken, the one-armed smith’s plain face grim with resolution.

“The way I see it, boy, if you take the sword, you’re an oathbreaker and your honor is forfeit, but you swore to give your honor for the watch, right? No man can release you of your vows, and I’m not even a Lord Commander, but we need those men.” Behind him, Pypar nodded solemnly.

Gods, but they were all dead men if he refused this. He looked back at the sword, almost resigned. This would not be freedom. This would not be salvation. If he took the sword he would be fighting for the rest of his life, fighting against the Boltons, the Wildlings, the Ironborn, the Lannisters, the men who objected to having an oathbreaker as a king… and then last of all the wights in the North, the true enemy. This was not like when he had joined with the Wildlings. A man could not turn back from being King. A King had to marry, had to father sons, had to hold land. He could not become a King in his body but remain true in his heart.

Jon reached out and took the sword. “I’ll be your damned King,” he said, his voice low and quiet. For the Watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clear up any confusion, these chapters are not presented in chronological order, precisely. The bit with Jon, for example, occurs quite a bit earlier than the events of last chapter.


	4. Best-Laid Plans

“We’ve made contact with the Blackwood men, milord.” the outrider wore an eager, breathless expression. “We should be meeting up with the force sieging Harrenhall in a little over an hour.”

Dacey could not be surprised that the outrider would be so cheerful. These last few weeks had been a dreary march filled with broken farmsteads and crow-picked corpses. The war had not been kind to the former lands of House Whent, and the prospect of their force meeting with Lord Blackwood’s was a merry one.

The Blackfish remained calm. “My thanks, Melmin,” he replied, “You are dismissed.”

The rider bowed awkwardly and retreated, already speaking to his companion before he had gone completely out of earshot, “I only caught a glimpse of the camp through the trees,” he loudly whispered, “but the Blackwood army is strong. Five thousands at least!”

This talk did not go missed by Lord Jonos Bracken. “Five thousands! Hah!” He laughed, his whiskers bristling like a sentinel in a stiff wind. Jonos Bracken was a big man, shorter than the Blackfish but stronger and stouter. “That withered old fool hasn’t a third that many men, not any more. I fear our army shall be sore surprised if they expect a warm welcome from Tytos. He’s had no more forage than we, and you can be sure he brought no great supply of provisions from Raventree. Mark my words, the man is more likely to beg for provisions from us than to give us any.”

“We are prepared for that much,” Ser Brynden replied coolly. “If Blackwood does not offer us bread, we will not starve. Steel can buy bread more cheaply than gold, and the lands around Duskendale are but a few day’s ride distant, untouched and unspoiled by war thus far.”

The walls of Harrenhall, made near-blue by the fog of morning, had been peeking out from behind the hills every time they turned a bend. Dacey almost laughed to look at them. Winterfell had seemed to her an impossible structure when she had first seen it, bigger than any town on Bear Island and with walls higher than the Great Hall. Harrenhall dwarfed Winterfell in turn by at least as large a margin. How could such a thing even be built? How could such a thing be taken?

But that was why they were here, was it not? The scouts had said that the Mountain held the Castle with a skeleton of a garrison, only a hundred men at most, and it was expected that they should be able to climb the walls or else build a ramp up to the side. A year ago, she might have been excited to be involved in such an action. But war had become tiresome rote long ago.

A few minutes more and the castle fully came into view, a lonely mountain rising huge above the ant-like army that surrounded it. Dacey scowled, suddenly.

“Where is the siege ramp? Where are the towers? Blackwood was supposed to be ready for an assault, but I see no preparations at all. Does he mean for us to starve the Mountain out?”

Bracken scowled. “Blackwood never had a head for figures or discipline. Like as not his men have been busier with whores and liquor than with the ramp. It is no small miracle that the Lannisters have not already pounced on him and his layabouts.”

“It is no miracle at all,” the Blackfish replied, his face dark with annoyance. Blackwood’s failure would bring him no more joy than it brought Lord Bracken, but talk of defeat could not be tolerated. This war effort hung on only by the barest of threads. “The Lannisters and their allies are stretched between half a dozen sieges and occupations and their subjects in the Crownlands love them not. If they come to us here in force they’ll lose Maidenpool, Duskendale, and half the Stormlands.”

Bracken snorted with disbelief and kept riding.

“Ser Brynden,” Dacey stated, “I find myself curious as to what Lord Umber can see up in the Van. Do I have your leave to ride ahead?” She asked as a sign of respect to the Blackfish, not because she imagined the absence of a daughter of a minor house would be noticed next to all the remaining Lords of the Riverlands and North. Dacey had retained some importance as a guard of King Robb, but now that he had died even the lesser knights of the host outranked her. Any respect that the Lords gave her was pure courtesy.

“Yes, Lady Dacey, of course.” the Blackfish replied, “You have my leave.”

She touched her heels to the flanks of her horse’s sides and cantered forward until she came near even with Lord Umber. Jon Umber’s horse, Rumbler, was of the same shaggy northern stock as her own horse, Prizes, but half again the size. Still, it looked too small for Jon, as he rode forward, his gaze firm on the horizon. “Bracken is craven,” she announced as soon as she had her friend’s ear. “You had the right of it at the feast. He sees Lannisters in every shadow.”

“Cowardice, or insight?” The Smalljon replied, gesturing at the uncompleted siegeworks. “You can see for yourself that something is amiss.”

“Delays happen,” Dacey replied. “But it seems to me that Bracken gives us up for defeat before we even engage in battle. The talk that comes from his mouth is poison, and when Blackwood is involved I make no bets as to his loyalty. Without Lord Tully or King Stark to check him, I fear we cannot trust to his loyalty at all.”

“Then we shall leave him here with a garrison, if he’s half the craven he seems, He’ll be sure to not lose the fortress. Blackwood is a cooler head, he will be better on campaign in any case. But that is a problem for later, when the castle is taken, and of that I am not as confident as you are.”

Dacey shrugged. “If we take Harrenhal, we will have many choices to make. If we do not, we will have none, only to be driven before our enemies all the way back to Riverrun.”

“If the gods smile on us, the Lannisters are not closer than a hundred miles. But we should know better than to expect favor from the gods to save us at this point.”

Dacey did not reply. The Blackfish’s confidence earlier had been a bluff, she knew that much. Last they had heard the Lions were busy in the Crownlands and Randyll Tarly had not moved from Maidenpool, but either could be on them within a few weeks. A siege of Harrenhall might take months. If the Mountain truly had killed all the men of the castle, there would be few mouths to feed inside those great walls and whatever stores they had would last a long time. How many did the Mountain have with him, a hundred? Five hundreds? Surely not more. His band had been fighting the whole of the war, from Riverrun to the Red Fork to Duskendale, and there had been less than a thousand of them to begin with.

Her hand touched her ax. They had ridden past too many burnt-out homesteads, heard too much of the Mountain’s cruelty. Dacey had raided and reaved in the Westerlands along with her mother and the rest of the Northern lords, but they had not reaved like that. Had not butchered children and dogs and women without cause, had not left families to rot in the air for the sport of crows. Dacey had lost most of her lust for battle, but that would be one head she should like to take. Would she sleep better at night, if she killed the Mountain? Could the Mountain’s blood absolve her of her wrongs?

These thoughts stopped short as Blackwood’s camp came properly into view. Tents and wagons and fortifications spread out over dozens of acres. They could make out the banners properly now, but banners did not catch her interest half so much as the column of men that had assembled in front of them, armed and ready for battle. Were there only a thousand of them? It seemed at least three times that number to Dacey. Why were they formed up for battle? Riders broke free from the Blackwood ranks as soon as they came into view, bearing the banner of parley.

“Halt!” The Smalljon yelled, and the vanguard obeyed. “Jerro, get a banner of parley up and signal the Blackfish. We need to see what Lord Blackwood is about.”

Dacey and the Smalljon stopped short, waiting for the Blackfish and Lord Bracken and the others to join them.

“Those are Raventree banners in front,” Dacey said to Lord Umber, finally realizing what was wrong, “But behind them, I see Brune and Blount and Bywater. Crownlanders. Gods be good there must be seven thousands at least!”

“Aye,” replied the Smalljon, “And there’s the dog of house Clegane too. Get your armor in order men! Form up! Where’re your helms? Have you forgotten we’re at war?” he yelled, whirling about and abusing his men.

Dacey’s mouth had gone dry. A trap, a trap, she wanted to scream. Had their outriders been so blind? They never had been before, but before they had been commanded by the Blackfish. It mattered little now. They could not run. They were tired from the march, and the enemy’s men were fresh. Brynden Tully’s forces would need to fight before they could be free, and she was not sure they could do that either. The men had not expected to be given battle today.

“They rallied the Crownlands,” she breathed, and could scarcely believe it. The Crownlands had not been reaved, but they had starved nonetheless. Rich cities like Duskendale required trade to feed themselves, and trade had not come into the region for many months, neither by land nor sea nor river. Blackfish had assumed that the Crownlanders would rally slowly if at all to Tywin’s banner.

“There are some who remember when Tywin was Hand,” The Smalljon commented.

“Or mayhap they smell an easy victory in the wind,” Dacey replied. A toothless, clawless wolf was nothing more than crowfood, and that described their situation well enough.

Lord Blackwood rode at the head of the riders coming out of the camp, tall and handsome, with enameled plate of bright yellow set with jet and a long black cape flowing behind. A dozen proud knights of his house rode behind him, along with one figure robed entirely in black. Once the Blackfish had come to the fore, Dacey and the Greatjon and a dozen others rode out to parley.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Blackfish shouted, drawing his charger up short. “Is this the courtesy of Raventree Hall on display? You ride out to us as though we are an invading force, when you should be welcoming us as your reinforcements!”

“Had you come a week earlier,” Tytos replied, “I should have welcomed you gladly. But you are late, and others arrived here first.” The hooded figure behind him threw his cloak into the wind, revealing a stocky frame armored in gilded plate. Dacey knew him only by description. Kevan Lannister, the brother of the Old Lion. He was shorter and older than she expected. She wondered how he would look if she caved his head in with a mace.

“Blackfish!” Ser Kevan called, “I will give you the same choice as I gave Lord Blackwood. Yield now and swear allegiance to King Tommen Baratheon and Lord Baelish, and you and those with you shall be spared execution. Fight, and the Mountain and his men will break your army in two. Run, and the Riverlands will fall to pieces behind you.”

“Faithless blaggard!” Bracken howled, spittle flying from his mouth. “I should stick a pike up your arse and raise you high, Blackwood, so I could see which way the wind is blowing.”

“I dealt with you all faithfully,” Blackwood said, his voice dark and angry, “But the King I swore to is dead, my lands are stripped bare, and snow will be falling ere long. How many more widows should I make before I can surrender with honor?”

“There’ll be widows and orphans aplenty soon enough, Blackwood,” Bracken growled, “It seems to me that your men are in the front of Lord Kevan’s little army.”

“Enough,” Blackfish stated, his voice cutting like an ax. “The whole world knows what terms from a Lannister are worth.” He spat into the ground. “You and your brother were running from me the whole war, let me show you how war is done.”

Ser Kevan Lannister frowned as if he had drunk a bitter drink. “Fine then,” He said. “You won’t get a chance to refuse the mercy of House Lannister a second time.” He and Blackwood turned their backs to and rode back to their camp, and Dacey and the Blackfish and the others did the same.

“This was his plan all along,” Bracken roared as he pulled his horse around. “He sought to make himself valuable to his new masters, and we were his blood price. I would wager he sent ravens out to rally the Crownlands even before he got to Harrenhall. He never even started constructing the siegeworks!”

“That doesn’t matter,” the Smalljon said with a quiet rumble. “What matters is our line of attack.”

“What matters is that we manage a fighting retreat in good order,” The Blackfish countered. “We can fight them here, and we might win, but it is better if we don’t. If they chase us they’ll have to siege every castle from Darry to Pinkmaiden and they’ll be strung out over all the Riverlands. Then we can turn on them and smash them to pieces.”

No, Dacey thought, that was wrong. If the Lannisters took ground here, Blackwood would be only the first of many turncoats, and Kevan Lannister’s six thousands would swell to ten or fifteen. Then Tywin or Tarly could come in from behind with thrice that number. But she saw, too, what the Blackfish intended. The plan would still work if the men held and forced the Lannisters to lay siege. If Ser Brynden could make the men believe the plan to be true, it would be, and with a reputation like the Blackfish’s such a thing might just be possible. She saw the Lords’ heads wagging in agreement as he spoke. It was a risky play, but then, she supposed that even a victory here against Lord Blackwood would be too costly.

“...I volunteer to lead a charge,” Marq Piper announced. “We won’t hit their pike line, of course, just a feint, but enough to hold their cavalry back while we make our escape.” Marq had been drunk as a sop when they had pulled him from the Twins, and he seemed eager to atone for his shame. Perhaps too eager.

“You?” Bracken scoffed, “No, this command is mine, if only so I can ride that prissy Blackwood bastard down myself!”

“No,” the Blackfish replied, “I will lead this charge myself.” Every eye went wide to hear it. The Blackfish was old and favored command at the rear. His taking the lead would be a great risk, but perhaps it should give the men the courage they sorely needed. “Lord Piper, I need you with your men organizing the retreat. They know and trust you, you’ll be needed there. Get to Whitetree crossing and hold there, we’ll meet you there before the day is over. Lord Bracken,” a small laugh escaped him, “If I see Blackwood, you will be right by my side, but you’d best strike fast lest I beat you to it.”

The gathered Lords smiled grimly at that, then split apart to do their duties. Already the line of Blackwoods and Crownlanders advanced upon them. The Blackfish gave her and the Smalljon each a nod, and they fell in behind him. Squires were still running every which way even as the enemy advanced, passing out helms and mail and shields. They had been expecting a pleasant ride, not a battle, and some had not even properly finished mounting their chargers.

The survivors of the Wedding had been armored already, at least. They saw blades in every shadow, and of late it seemed they were right as often as not. As for Dacey, her squire had only to give her a lance before she turned to face her foe.

Gods, they were so close, and there were so many of them. She breathed to calm herself. The lull before battle brought terror, that never changed. If anything, experience made it worse. A green recruit would not know what came next, but a veteran knew all too well. She steeled her heart and closed her helm as the few Mormont riders that remained closed ranks about her.

The Bracken knights would form the center of the charge as they always did, with their famous red Bracken coursers. Umber’s smaller, shaggier chargers would come along the right, and as usual, the Mormont riders would follow in their wake. How many charges had they made together like this? Dacey could scarcely recall. But this charge was different. The Young Wolf had always picked his battles, never told them to charge into an army that had not half lost the battle already.

“They’ve seen the infantry retreating now, and they’ll be sending their horse to cut them down!” The Blackfish screamed, addressing the whole host, “Piper’s going to get the men out of here in good order, but we need to give him space. Kill every man that sits a horse, then pull away. They cannot defeat us if we hold fast in our minds! Think not of ransoming their men! The only ransom we have to offer is the one they offered Robb Stark! Blood and Steel!”

The roar that followed near deafened Dacey, and in spite of her terror she felt blood filling her head and her arms. She stood tall, she stood strong, she stood a loyal guard of the Young Wolf, and so would she die if she must. After the terror of anticipation, came the madness of battle, and she felt it rising in her as the host began to move forward, lances high in the air. The Blackfish himself formed the tip of the spear, with Bracken on his left and the Smalljon on his right. Heroes, every one of them. Her horse’s gait quickened and soon the rising and falling motion of a slow trot turned to the smooth, powerful stride of a full gallop.

“For the North!” She screamed, “For the Riverlands and the North! For the Young Wolf!” Horns were blaring up and down the charge as nearly two thousand horses thundered and shook the earth. Her legs strained to maintain her seat as her horse pushed forward with all its might. They were an avalanche of steel and flesh.

The air filled with arrows, rushing forward to meet them as they charged. Hitting dirt or steel or sometimes flesh, but Dacey scarcely noticed them. She had only blood and steel in her mind now, and the enemy cavalry only a few short paces away, with the Mountain himself at the helm. They collided in a mad crash. Dacey’s lance broke in two after sinking half its length in horseflesh and she nearly lost her seat as the force traveled up her arm. The Mountain was down, the Mountain was down! But she had other matters to consider as the man she had dismounted rose from his dying steed and came at her, arming sword held high. Her horse kicked him in the face and she wheeled about to break a man’s skull with her mace. Her arm ached with the force of it.

A new opponent thrust a lance at her helm and she twisted away from the blow, even as one of her own riders rode past her and struck him down. The Lannisters and their Blackwood dogs might have more men, but the Starks had more horse, at least for the moment. She turned her head, looking for an opponent…

...and nearly had her face cleaved in two by the Mountain’s greatsword. She spurred her horse to trample him but he sidestepped her and bashed his pommel into her leg as she passed. Her thigh exploded with pain and then the press of the bodies swept them apart again, pushing Dacey forward even as the Mountain was surrounded by a tide of Northern horse.

Finally she had a moment to think. They were winning. The thought surprised her, but there was no denying that the enemy cavalry was in full rout. She almost laughed to think of it. But if that was so, then why had Brynden not yet sounded the retreat? Already the Blackwood and Crownlander foot would be closing in around them. What was Ser Brynden doing?

A chill ran through her as she saw the Blackfish’s squire, Mitchell Lynderly, looking about in confusion and terror. “Where is the Blackfish?” She yelled, riding over to him. The squire’s mouth opened and shut three times in confusion, his eyes wide and his face white as milk.

“The M-mountain, he...” the squire blubbered, his silence saying more than enough.

Dacey cursed. The Blackfish had been wounded, captured, or killed, and Mitchell had not had the initiative to call a retreat. “Give me the horn, Mitchell! Give me the damned horn!” When his hands remained frozen to his sides she grabbed the great horn from his saddle and put it to her lips, drawing in a great breath. She pushed the air out in a great, heaving blast of sound, then drew in another and blew again. Then she did it again. Moments or hours had gone by and spots were dancing in her eyes when the cavalry finally began to slow and stop.

Lord Umber came to her, fresh from the chaos, with mud all over him and the great shaggy warbeast he called Rumbler. “Dacey!” He yelled, “Where is the Blackfish?”

“Dead or wounded!” Dacey yelled, still gasping for breath, “But we’ve done enough!”

The Smalljon nodded and slowly the host of Northern horse began to twist, turn, and reshape, until the Smalljon were at the front of the charge again. In the far distance she could see the retreating banners of the Northern host, marching back the way they came. If she and the others could get to them, then Brynden’s strategy had worked, but at what cost? The Northern foot would retreat in order, and most of the horse would as well, but even now Blackwood arrow shafts were chasing them, playing up and down the formation and taking a terrible toll. She could only guess at how many of their horse had died in the first charge, or been trapped by the infantry. The battle fever drained out of her like the tide and she almost felt like weeping.

She had survived every battle, but for what?


	5. Wolves and Birds

“Arri, where’s my ale?” The Hound called out, “If you’ve spilled any I’ll beat you bloody!”

For all his barking, he would not beat her bloody, she knew that much by now. The Hound might be a monster but he was not Weese or Polliver, not to her. Still, she hurried to bring the ale to his table in the corner.

Weeks had passed since the Hound had last worn his armor. No dog-helm or grey plate or sword… a simple roughspun shirt thick with sweat and dirt were all the heraldry he bore. Arya wondered what Sansa would think of a famous tourney champion like the Hound working with his hands amidst the smallfolk in exchange for bread and ale.

Sansa was gone though, married to the Kingslayer’s little brother. Sandor had seen it happen, she knew, even if he did not talk about it or anything else with her. Arya was the last wolf. Her and Grey Wind, and Grey Wind had to hide from the villagers and so did she.

“Myen says the snows are melting,” she announced as she set the Hound’s big flagon down in front of him, “We can leave here soon and get to the Vale, I think.”

The Hound glared at her from across his drink. “Who the fuck is Myen and who asked him what he thinks?”

“If the snows are melting,” Arya pressed, “We can go to the Vale.”

“If you want to fight steel-wearing Mountain Clansmen who burn out their own eyes for sport, Arri, you’re free to go.”

Grey Wind would protect her, but she did not say that. “Craven,” she stated glumly, her voice sinking low. “My aunt Lysa could make you a lord but you’re so scared of fighting you’ll just die like a peasant.”

The Hound set down his tankard and grimaced. “I’m not a craven. I’m tired, you little shit. We’ll stay here a few weeks, and get enough copper to send your aunt a message. Let some other poor bastard take the risk.”

“But we can-”

“Shut your mouth before I break it,” Sandor rumbled, leaning over his mug.

He would not break her jaw, but she went quiet anyway. “Do you need me for anything?” she said after the moment passed.

Sandor grunted, and that was as close to permission as he was like to give. Arya had left the tavern in half a heartbeat, and before long she was out among the trees. She checked behind her for Myen, the little girl from the village who followed her everywhere, but it seemed that Myen had left her behind when the Hound got off from work. The Hound scared the little girl, made her hug her stupid little cloth doll even tighter. Arya smiled. At least the Hound was good for something.

She picked up a stick from the forest floor and began hitting the trees as she passed, imagining that the stick were Needle and the trees were Bolton men. She found herself yawning, uncontrollably, as she often did these days. The Hound said he was tired, but she was tired too, though she did not know why. She slept half till noon most days and even then she did not feel rested. She felt more alive in her dreams than she did awake.

A soft ‘woof’ called from behind her and she turned to see Grey Wind standing there, tall as a horse and as silent as a mouse. Arya never found Grey Wind, he always found her. She rushed to him, burying her face in the thick ruff of his neck.

“I missed you,” She said, hugging him tight. The wolf pulled her in close with its snout and for a moment everything in the world was right.

She pulled away. “Sandor’s a coward and he won’t go to the Vale even though the snows are melted,” she stated. “He’s just afraid to die.”

Grey Wind huffed indignantly.

“He talks like he means to stay here all winter, like he’s lost his belly for fighting. I wish you’d just go to the Vale with me, I know you’d keep me safe on the road.”

The great wolf lay down and rolled on his back in the dirt, looking at her as though he was inviting her to play.

Arya rose and walked in a circle. “We don’t need him! I don’t know why you think we do! He’s not part of the pack, he’s just a dog.”

Grey Wind cocked his head, opening his mouth wide in a doggy grin.

“We shouldn’t even be going to the Vale, we should be going to Jon at the Wall!”

Grey Wind just blinked at her with those huge yellow eyes of his. She sighed and tackled his neck. “I wish you could talk,” she stated mournfully. But wolves couldn’t talk, not even to each other. Not like people could. Grey Wind could never help her with Maester Luwin’s lessons or explain to her about Northern politics or tell her about lands far to the east. She hugged him tighter.

She did not leave him until the sun had nearly set and the villagers were closing their doors. When she got back to the stable that she and the Hound had been staying in, she found him or the Hound sitting on a stool, watching for her.

“You best not be thinking of running off on me,” The Hound snarled at her, “You’re my prize, you understand?”

“Or what, you’ll run me down like Mycah?”

“I hit you with the ax once, don’t make me hit you with my sword.”

“Your sword?” Arya questioned. But she saw it then, laid across his lap where he was working at it with a whetstone.

“Aye, its a rusty, ill-used piece of shit but its better than that fucking longaxe. It’s half my wages if you can believe it.”

“If you’ve been paid, then...”

“The work’s done, and we’ve been told to bugger off.”

“The wall’s done?” Sandor had been helping the villagers put up a ramshackle wall of stakes, little more than a fence. She had wanted to scream at them, tell them they were wasting their time if the Mountain came through. Their wall was not much better defense than Myen’s stupid little cloth doll, and the smallfolk were as foolish as she for placing their hopes on it. “I thought you were going to stay here all winter,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Maybe I would’ve, but these know my name, know my reputation.” He scowled. “Congratulations, little shit, you’re getting your wish.”

\---

No Mountain clansmen attacked them on the road into the Vale. Arya wondered if Grey Wind had chased them off. Maybe he had. Maybe he had melted the snows too, and cleared their path for them. Anything seemed possible to her at that moment. She had never been so close to mountains, real mountains before and her spirits rose into the sky along with the road. She went to see her mother’s sister, her aunt, her blood. Lysa Arryn was not pack, not yet, but perhaps she could become pack. Mother had been a trout before she had been a wolf.

The air had become cold and thin enough that Arya could see her breath, and that also made her feel like she was going home, away from the hot stink of the Riverlands and the capital. Father had been raised here, had he not? Would he also be so excited to see his breath in the air?

The howl of a wolf tore through the evening air. “Fuck!” Clegane barked. “These mountains must be rank with bloody wolves with how often we’re hearing them.” Arya suppressed a giggle and Sandor glowered at her. “We’ll see how much you’re laughing when you and your horse are riding in a wolf’s belly.”

“I’m a direwolf of Winterfell, I’m not afraid of wolves.”

“Shut your mouth before I break it,” the Hound growled, “There’s plenty out here as would like to carry you away and steal my reward from me. You’re my squire, and until we get to your aunt, the name your mother gave you in the cradle is ‘Arri,’ you hear?”

“Maybe I’d like to get taken by someone else,” Arya retorted, “Maybe they won’t smell like shit.”

“And maybe they’d take a liking for all that Lannister gold,” The Hound jeered, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Marry you to sweet little Tommen?” A bark of a laugh escaped him and she scowled. She did not recite Tommen’s name every night like she did Joffrey’s or Jaime’s, but the boy was still a Lannister.

“I’d like to see them try to marry me to Tommen,” she spat.

“Aye, he’d more than have his hands full,” Sandor stated, grimacing in what Arya guessed must be something like a smile. “But you’ll stick with me anyway. We’re both dead or worse if we’re caught by the lions and you know it. ”

If Grey Wind would let her leave she would be gone in an instant. She wanted to yell that at him, but she held her tongue. Sandor was not the worst evil in the world, not in a world with the Mountain and the Tickler and thousands like them. Grey Wind refusing to show himself to Sandor frustrated her more. What reason could the wolf have for his shyness? She could not say, but she felt sure that if she spoke to Sandor about the wolf, some kind of spell would be broken and the wolf would leave them forever. She still saw him often enough, eyes gleaming out of the woods during the night when they made camp, and often she wanted to go and play with him… but Sandor was too close and too watchful, and Arya was too tired at the end of each day. She wished she could sleep half the day as she had in the village, but instead she had to ride tired, half-slumped over on Craven’s back. She wondered how long it had been since she had slept in a feather bed.

The road bent around the side of a hill Sandor pulled up short. Up ahead, their road joined with another and on that road a whole column of people, animals, wagons, and more. Arya bit her lip. They would have to wait until the caravan passed, for the Hound would risk no man seeing them until they were past the Bloody Gates. She made to dismount Craven, to give the horse a rest, but then another sound stopped her. Hoofbeats, on the road behind them. Distant, but approaching fast enough that she and the Hound would be caught before the caravan ahead past, and there were no convenient ditches in which she and the Hound could hide.

Sandor urged Stranger into a canter, cursing like a storm as Arya kept pace behind him, “Follow me, Arri,” he growled, “and for the sake of all the gods, remember your damned name. We’re not safe until we make it past the Bloody Gate.” He pulled up his scarf over the worst of his scars. He was too big and too ugly for that to do any good, Arya thought, but she kept that to herself. Not every man was a Jaqen H’ghar.

The caravaneers dressed in bright colors of red and green and yellow, almost like the crowd that had followed the King and her Father south through the Riverlands. Arya held back a sneer. These smallfolk might as well have been children. “Hullo, strangers!” one of their men called, a simple man in plain brown robes with a shock of blonde hair sticking up from his head like the flower of a nettle. “Are you off to join the Lord Protector’s host as well?”

“Didn’t hear about no Lord Protector,” Sandor rumbled, “Just heard there was work in the Vale.”

“We heard the same,” the man replied, “I’m Carder and these are my folk. The Lord Protector of the Vale has called all his banners and means to join the war and if gods be good, we’ll be following. I don’t suppose you’d want to join us on the way, stranger? It’s good luck to travel together, with the Mountain Clans as bold as they are these days. We’d love to have a proper knight in our company.”

Sandor’s eyes darted back down the path from whence they’d come. In the clear mountain air Arya could see the riders they had heard coming up nearly a mile behind them. Outriders with no banner, no doubt meaning to join with this host of the Lord Protector same as Carder and the others. Arya remembered Robb talking about outriders, once. Most of them were second sons of wealthy peasants who fancied they could get rich through war. If someone wanted to buy their swords they would earn their fortune that way, or else they would earn it through raiding and highway banditry.

“My name’s Clif,” The Hound rumbled, “and don’t call me ser, I’m no knight.”

Carder laughed, “You’ve got a sword, thick armor, and a bleeding huge warhorse. That’s what makes a knight as far as I’m concerned.”

The Hound sniffed. “Sounds as right as anything I’ve heard. Arri here tends to my armor and my horses so he’d be my squire.”

“You’ll stay with the caravan then?”

“You can let me ride in one of those carts for an hour and I’ll do whatever you ask of me,” he said with a sigh. Sandor only wanted to be out of the site of the outriders, Arya realized. The Hound had the heart of a hen, but she stilled her tongue. She did not want to fight the outriders either, not without the Hound behind her. They were so close to safety, so close.

But they put Sandor up in one of the carts and the outriders rode past them without even looking toward him, surrounded as he was by boxes and crates. Arya had to get down on her feet and lead Stranger and Craven herself, as no one from the caravan could get close to the Hound’s big warhorse without it snapping its bright yellow teeth at them. But Stranger did not bite at Arya, not anymore, and she had stopped being afraid of him after the Twins. She had stopped being afraid of anything after that.

“You’re a mite small for a squire,” Carder was saying to her as she walked. “How did you end up serving Clif? I’ll give you a penny if the story is a good one?”

“It's a bad story,” she said with a frown. “My parents are dead and there’s nowhere else for me to be.” That wasn’t quite true. She had a brother and an uncle at the Wall, Aunt Lysa in the Vale, and Great Uncle Brynden at Riverrun, but of them, only Jon was properly family. He was the only one she could call pack and he was half a world away. Compared to the uncles and aunts she had never met, the Hound felt almost safe by comparison.

“I’ll not press too hard with my questions, have no fear,” Carder replied, smiling. “But you won’t starve, at least. Lord Baelish has food and coin for everyone.”

Arya stood up straight. What? Lord Baelish? She had heard that name somewhere. She knew, she knew… yes, she knew who he was, though it seemed almost a lifetime ago. Not even Sansa had known his name when they had met. He was father’s master of coin before everything had gone wrong. What was such a man doing in the Vale, and what power did he have to command its banners? “I thought Lady Lysa ruled in the Vale, on behalf of her son,” she said.

“She and the Lord Regent rule now. Baelish came up from the capital in the south, finally getting away from them Lannisters, and he’s here now and he’s swayed Lady Lysa into finally taking action. Let’s see how proud those Lannisters are when forty thousand of the Vale’s finest are riding down at them through the Bloody Gate.”

Arya blinked. It seemed too good to be true, and yet, and yet… it could be possible. It must be. There had been men loyal to her father in the capital, and Lord Baelish had been often with her father toward the end, now that she thought of it. Her heart beat fast and she had a thousand questions, but she buried them deep and willed her heart to calm itself. “Clif’ll be glad of the work,” Arri replied, “but Lions and Wolves are much the same to us.”

“Well, you’ll find few enough that love the Lion here. The mountain clans have gotten bold on Lannister gold and Lannister steel. It was the Imp that armed them, and it’s us as have suffered for it. A village not far from here was sacked, with near everyone either slaughtered or carried off into the night. If the Lord Protector wants to fight, I’m glad to hear it.”

Arri kept silent. Thinking of the Lannisters made her think of the Mountain, or of Robb, or of a thousand other things that were too near and too painful. She would think of those things later when she could be Arya again, when there was no-one to hide from.

She fell back a dozen paces until she was abreast with the cart on which Sandor was lounging.

“They say the Vale rides to avenge my brother,” she whispered. The words felt almost impossible to say.

“I heard.”

Was he stupid? Did he not see what this meant? “They’re going to avenge my brother! They’re encamped on this side of the Bloody Gate and Carder says we may meet with them tomorrow! He says there are two score thousands!”

The Hound rose to a sitting position and fixed her with a glare. “I don’t believe a word of it, and I do not mean to wait to find out.”

“But Carder says...”

“Carder’s a peasant who has never gone more than a day’s travel from his village,” Sandor sneered, “He has no idea what he’s saying.”

“It’s Lord Baelish who is leading them. He served my...”

A long, barking laugh escaped the Hound, so forceful it half seemed he was going to choke. Arya felt her face flush red with heat. “H-he served my father...” she forced herself to say the words.

“Close your mouth before more shit spills out of it,” Sandor snapped, his voice hard but his eyes still sparkling, “You don’t know a thing about Baelish. He’s a Lannister dog more than I ever was, even if he did feign loyalty to your father for a time. Don’t forget, I was there when your father was betrayed. I saw who was the one who held a knife to your father’s throat. You’d be better riding straight to Casterly Rock then going into that one’s clutches,” Sandor’s voice went very low. “We’ll rest with these here for now as it’s almost dark, but we’ll be gone from them before morning.”

“But-”

“I’ll hear no more of it,” Sandor stated, and there was something in his eyes more dangerous than any threat. Arya slipped to the back of the caravan then, leading the horses in sullen silence. The Hound was a liar and a villain. He had killed Mycah, he had killed because Joffrey had told him too and he had smiled about it. Why should she believe him over a friend of her father and mother? Why had she ridden with him so long? She had been forgetting her prayers. She should have killed Sandor long ago. It wouldn’t be hard, she knew. He did not tie her up in his cloak as he had done before. He wasn’t even watching her now. Tonight, she thought, she would kill him, stab him in the throat while he slept, then run away on Craven to Lord Baelish.

The sun set early in the Mountains of the Moon, and before long they were bedding down for rest. “Get some sleep,” the Hound growled. “You were nearly falling off your horse yesterday and I can’t have you getting damaged.”

She took her bedroll from him with a glare and set to putting her bed for the night. She was tired, she knew. She had been since before they had left the village. Every day when she rose she felt as though she could use another night of sleep, but they always had to travel farther. She scowled at her weakness. She could sleep when she was with her Aunt Lysa and Lord Baelish. She had more important things to consider.

As always, the Hound slept but a few feet from her, and Arya stayed very still so he would think her asleep. The big man took forever to get comfortable, and even when he finally stilled himself it was clear from his occasional grunts and sighs that he had not yet fallen into a deep sleep. She stilled herself again and breathed deeply. She could be patient. She could wait. She had always had to wait when she had been with the Mountain, and she could wait now that she was with his brother. Wolves had to stalk their prey for hours, sometimes days, and she was a wolf too she was….

She was The Wolf.

The Wolf hunted dangerous game that night. Humans in steel and leather, who had been chased right into the jaws of her pack by other men. She had caught their scent while following the river to the great water in the south, running away from a small slaughter of their kind. Many more of their kin ran away to the west but these had been separated. They ran, a tiny pack of fewer than a dozen men with no leader and no order. She had hunted them for two days now, days in which the men had hardly slept or stopped running. At first they had run slowly, fearing pursuit of their fellow men, but now they ran from her, and she reveled in it. Wolves ran from men, even as deer ran from wolves. This was the law. But she was no mere wolf. She was The Wolf and men should run from her. This was her power, her secret, and she would teach it to the lesser wolves if she could.

The flesh of the men’s horses had fed them the day before. The beasts had died under the men as they ran, and now. But that meal had been a day ago and the pack had not eaten its fill. They were hungry now, hungry to fill the void inside them, and she would provide them with meat. She would show them that living men could be eaten as easily as their beasts.

They stalked the men through the night for hours, unseen and unheard, but when the men lay down to rest, lay down to start a fire, then the wolves circled into their view, snarling and growling. The men gathered in a circle like a group of aurochs, torches and blades turned outward. They yelled and screamed and tried to stand tall, and for a moment her kin wavered, but she was not as weak as them. She stepped into the light and all noise ceased with her arrival. A low, thunderous growl escaped her, and now it was the men who wavered. Then with a yell, the tallest of the men raised his weapon in defiance and they all turned to face her, arms upraised and yells redoubled. She could charge them, break their sticks, and crush them, as her brother had done to so many, as she had done to a few. But there was no need.

As they turned to face her, they turned their backs on her lesser kin, and those now rose to pounce on them from behind, grabbing their steel-shelled legs and dragging them to the earth. The men turned to close up and form a circle again, but it was too late, the circle had been broken, it could not hold, and soon the men were buried under her pack, a tide of fur and teeth bearing them to ground.

The Wolf turned to lick her paw, absently. As the greatest of her kin, she had been the first to partake of the horseflesh and had eaten more than any other. These few men were too small, too scrawny, and too covered in steel to concern her when her belly was full. Her pack’s teeth struggled to find purchase on the men’s steely shells. The way to eat a man in steel was to pull them limb from limb and then eat the meat like sucking the marrow from a bone. Her pack would remember this in time, but for now the men would scream and thrash in terror and pain while her brothers and sisters tried to bite through their steel.

She sniffed the air, a new scent coming on the wind to her. Her brother, she realized. He was not far. He was close! Almost upon them! But no, she realized, he was still far away, climbing up through the distant mountains with his pack of humans. But why had she smelled him?

She looked to the men, and then she realized why. These men bore her brother’s scent on them. He had led them far and long. It had not been only fear in their eyes when they had seen her, but recognition and confusion. These men were her brother's men, and she heard him howling at her from the mountains. She resisted. Her pack needed to eat, and her brother was nowhere near these men. A moment of resistance more, and then she yielded. Her eldest brother’s claim came first, and so she threw her head back in a mighty howl that split the night.

Her pack froze, questioning her. Did she mean to eat the men herself? She walked forward, and the pack parted away from the still struggling men. One of her brothers snapped at her in defiance and swatted him aside with her paw. The men rose, slowly, stiffly, unwilling to run, and unwilling to fight. A low growl rose from her lungs and the leader of the men, the one who had been first to defy her, threw his stick to the ground and bent at the waist, that strange gesture that men always made to each other, like wolves baring their necks. She ended her growl with a huff and then barked at her pack. They had other food to seek tonight.

“Arya! Arya!” someone was saying, a heavy man’s voice. Who? Where?

“Arya, Arya, get up. Get up you sodden piece of shit,” Sandor was standing over her, shaking her. The Wolf dream faded from her sluggish mind as she tried to collect herself. “Get up!” Sandor repeated, and she struggled to sit up. Somewhere beyond the Mountains of the Moon, the sun had risen and dim twilight and mist covered everything in a bluish tint. Then she heard it. Hoofbeats. Dozens of horses at least, and coming fast. She awoke all at once then and sprang to her feet, wishing she still had Needle. Then she saw them.

A score of knights of the Vale rode down from the path above, their armor gleaming in the dim light of morning. Above her, Sandor was hurriedly attaching all the bits of his armor together, his rusty sword sticking out of the ground just a few feet away. The other members of the caravan had only just begun to rouse, blinking themselves awake as an avalanche steel bore down upon them.

“Why are they here?”

“I’ll be fucked if I know,” The Hound growled. “Could be they’re just passing by, could be they’re here for me. Either way, I mean to have a sword in my hand.”

Or they could be here for me, Arya realized with a start. But no, no one would recognize her. Nobody had, aside from the Hound and Harwin. She wasn’t huge and ugly like the Hound. No passing outrider would tell tales of a short and plain northern boy.

“If it is me they’re after,” the Hound stated coldly, “Things won’t be going well for me. Baelish is a Lannister dog, and as far as he’s concerned, I’m a traitor and a deserter. If they’re coming for me you have to act like you never knew me. Go on with Carder and these others. They’re good folk, if plain. Forget Arya, forget your family, you’ll be happier for it.”

“I won’t forget-”

“Promise me,” He stated, his voice more low and urgent. “Promise me you won’t reveal yourself to Baelish.”

Arya swallowed, her mind whirling. The knights would be on them in a moment. She had but a moment to decide. Could she do it? Could she stay with Carder and the smallfolk and be happy? Could she forget the face of her father, her mother, her brothers and sister? Did she trust the Hound? Did she... But no, she had no time to think, no time at all. The true seeing, that is the heart of it. That was what Syrio Forel had said. She turned her eyes to meet Sandor and Looked, as if for the first time, and at that moment, her heart was decided.

“I’m Arri,” she said firmly. “I promise.”

The warhorses clattered to a stop perhaps twenty paces from them, and their leader removed his helm to reveal a mat of nappy grey hair. The leader nodded to Sandor simply. “Lothor Brune,” he stated simply, “And you’re Sandor Clegane.”

“What of it?” The big man replied.

“Lord Baelish heard of your arrival in the Vale, and he means to welcome you,” Lothor Brune replied. “We’re here to bring you to him.” The leader of the knights paused. “I should mention, he privately revealed to me that he had plans of offering you a place in his guard.”

“I suppose he would,” Sandor said with a grimace. “Give me a minute to get on my horse and we’ll be away.”

He turned to look for Stranger, but Arya had already set about readying him for mounting. The Hound’s eyes were almost mournful as she brought the horse over.

“And this is your squire?” Brune asked. Sandor opened his mouth, but Arya beat him to it.

“I’m called Arri, milord, though the Hound will tell you as I’m no squire, on account of him being no knight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm now what could Littlefinger be planning?
> 
> I love Arya so much.
> 
> Cheers folks! This marks the end of my buffer so updates from here may be a bit slower! Hope you've enjoyed the story so far and please comment!


	6. To Guard the Realms of Men

Chapter 6: To Guard the Realms of Men

“...This scheme is madness.” Crowfood’s face pulsed almost purple with energy as he finished speaking. Mors and the Mountain Clan chiefs of the North had come to meet and speak strategy with their King in the ruins of Mole’s Town. In truth, it had been Mors who had talked the most and the longest. Words were wind, and Mors was a storm.

“Then you have a madman for a King,” Jon replied, his as steady and hard as a stone. He met Mors’ gaze directly, daring the big man to defy him. Arguments had flown like darts between them for most of an hour, but it must stop here. Mors would happily rule the North through the king he had made, but Jon did not mean to be a puppet. He alone knew the face of the North’s true enemy, and despite his experience, Mors could not be trusted. Another word from Crowfood would be treason, and blood would follow. Jon prayed that the gods would still Crowfood’s tongue. The chiefs of the Wulls, Norreys, and Burleys had little love for Mors or his house, and they would support Jon if it came to a fight, but even a victory could still become a defeat.

Mors opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. The grim Mountain Clan chiefs ringed the table like a circle of stone statues, regarding him coolly. The big man laughed. “Others take me, these are mad times,” He shook his head, “Perhaps a stab of madness is what we’ve been missing. I’ve said my piece, I’ll say no more.”

“Your concerns are mine as well,” Jon replied, schooling his features to be calm and unreadable. “But these are dark days and we will not survive them without risk. I depend on you to do your part, now more than ever. I depend on all of you.”

Gruff murmurs of assent answered him, and the meeting dispersed. As the men left, a great sigh escaped him. It had been folly to meet with them here, in the ruins of Mole’s Town, surrounded by the butchery of the Wildlings. He did not much like what they would think, looking at the burned sticks that had been the smithy and the tavern. Jon regarded the ruins himself as he left the tent. Ygritte and the others had done this, had burned the houses and the brothel. Even the sad little outhouse with the red lamp had been razed.

Not for the first time, doubts gripped him. A year ago he had not been fit to eat with the lords, how was he to gain their respect now? His thoughts went to Robb, went to father. Robb had been handsome, quick to laugh, and strong. People were drawn to him, and fully returned the affection he freely gave. Father had been quieter, more thoughtful, but full of confidence and wisdom. Jon grimaced. Men said he looked like his father, but he knew that could not be true. Father had smiled more. Father had been warm, and Jon felt nothing but the cold and the throbbing pain in his leg where Ygritte had shot him.

Warm or cold, it made no difference, he must press on. They were on the road to the Wall within the hour, a thousand infantry behind them. Something in Jon’s heart hurt to see them. So many, it seemed, more than he had ever hoped might ride to the Wall's defense, and yet so few. How many of these would die for his throne? But no, that was not a thought a king could think. A king who did not care for his people was a bad king, but a king unwilling to see his servants die would soon be no king at all. Jon steeled himself. Men would die, but not for him. They would die for House Stark. They would die for the realms of men.

He distracted himself as best he could by talking to his commanders. The Norrey, the Wull, the Burley, and Mors too. A King should know his vassals. Had his father said that? He might have. Lord Stark had always been asking questions, of his children, his vassals, his servants. Hugo Wull spoke in glowing terms of ‘The Ned.’ Would his son speak the same of ‘the Jon’ three summers from now? Would any of them still be alive by then?

The Wall loomed huge in the distance as they approached, more like a range of mountains than anything made by man. Jon felt its approach weigh on his mind as he drew near. While at Last Hearth, he had sent ravens to the Wall, but he did not yet know how they had been received. The North might have an oathbreaking bastard for a ruler, but the Watch had no leadership at all. Jeor’s death had left a void that few could fill. Jon prayed that the Old Gods would give the Watchmen better wisdom than to put Thorne or Slynt in command.

“Tell the men to make camp,” Jon ordered Mors as they drew near to Castle Black. “We cannot risk our men mixing with the Watch. The Mountain Clan champions are too proud by half, and there’s too great a risk of a fight breaking out.”

Mors grumbled agreement and turned aside to bark at one of his riders. Jon clenched his jaw. Insolence. It seemed that Crowfood had not forgotten the insult he had been paid that morning. Well, let him remember, Jon thought bitterly. Perhaps he would think before challenging his king again. For the moment, Jon had other matters with which to concern himself.

Builders and stewards of the Watch came out to take their horses as they rode in. Jon spared a kind word for Halder and a pat on the back, but the big man just shook his head sadly. Jon swallowed the pain that rose in his throat and hid it deep. A King could not be a Brother of the Watch.

One-armed Noye stood at the front of the crowd that had gathered in the courtyard, clearly the leader of what remained of the Castle Black garrison. By itself that did not surprise Jon. Noye had never been merely a smith. His experience and strength made him a natural for leadership, especially in dark times like the present. But would he be too humble to truly seize command outright? He had been quick enough to order Jon to break his oaths. What could be more audacious than that?

The eyes of the Watch regarded him with expressions ranging from indifference to open malice. The Umber men were there, newly arrayed in the Black of the Watch, standing well and apart from Slynt and Thorne. Whoresbane himself sported a cruel smile and a few new scars and Jon looked away from him as quickly as possible. But not every face brought unpleasant memories to the fore. Pypar grinned and wiggled his ears when Jon caught his eye, and it was only with effort that Jon restrained himself from smiling. Not for the last time, Jon reminded himself that this had been his only choice.

“We are grateful for the help of the King in the North during this troubled time,” Noye stated, giving a shallow bow.

Jon merely nodded in reply. Noye deserved more respect than that, but a king could not bow to a smith. “I would be a poor King in the North if I did not ride to the defense of my lands,” Jon said. “I am glad that it is the Watch who greets me today, and not Mance Rayder.”

“If you want Mance, he’s near enough at hand. There’s been no word from his camp since their first attack a few days back. But I expect you heard of that.” Jon had. The attack had been little more than a feint, a test of the Castle’s garrison. Mance must have hoped that Ygritte and the Thenns had killed enough of the Black Brothers that the few remaining Watchmen would scatter like leaves. Instead, they had been met by hundreds of sharp spears.

“I take it that you have command here?”

Noye’s silence said enough. The manner in which the men of the watch exchanged questioning glances said more. Noye had not taken command, not formally. He could speak for them in a moment of crisis, but once the threat of the Wildlings disappeared, so would his authority. Jon grit his teeth. He could not accept that.

“Mormont hasn’t returned,” Noye said after a moment has passed, “And neither has Marsh or half the rest of the Watch. We’ve written to the Shadow Tower and to Eastwatch but they’ll not arrive for weeks yet.” he paused, “With these you’ve brought to our aid, I’d wager we can hold.”

“The Watch will not fall while I am King in the North,” Jon stated firmly. “And I will treat with the King beyond the Wall soon enough. But first we must ask for your hospitality. My men are tired from a long march, and they need be fed and their horses watered.” Jon dismounted from his horse, wincing as the pain from the arrow flared again.

The stewards surged forward to care for the horses, and the rest of the Watchmen separated from the main group to talk amongst themselves. Jon limped forward to speak with Noye while the others were distracted.

“Donal Noye,” Jon said with a smile, “There is a small matter I would speak to you about in private.”

Noye flexed his jaw, and then nodded and turned away to lead him further into the castle’s yard. Jon felt the presence of Ghost and his guards following not far behind, and he allowed them to follow for a time. But when they drew near Noye’s forge, he turned and told them to stand guard outside the door.

Noye’s forge never went dark, never went cold. Heat, after so long in the cold, was enough to make Jon’s eyes water as he entered the forge. Embers lit the room with a dull-red glow and long shadows. Noye absently moved to the anvil and leaned over it to look Jon in the eyes.

“So what is it you wanted to speak about, boy?”

Gone was the deference Noye had shown him before the men. Once again Jon was a green recruit of the Night’s Watch, someone to be guided and counseled and shepherded. How many months ago had Jon been Noye’s assistant here in the forge? Three? Five?

“I need you to hold an election,” Jon stated flatly. “I need you to be officially recognized as acting Lord Commander.”

“Heh,” Noye laughed, “No. I don’t think so. I’m a smith, not a lord. I’ve no interest in sending boys to die, or in sending men to kill. I came here for a simple life and I’ll not have you taint that.”

“You’re already leading them as it is.”

“So why would I trouble the men with a vote? Because you say so?” He grunted. “I’m not your man, King Stark, grateful as we all are for your aid.”

“It’s necessary,” Jon insisted. He was a Stark of Winterfell, and he would be obeyed. “When Mallister and Pyke get here, every decision the Watch has made in defense of the Wall will be called into question. Any deals the Watch has struck will be challenged. The Watch needs to stand as one, with clear leadership until those two arrive. The Watch needs to have one clear voice, and it has to be you.”

“You need someone to take the title of acting Lord Commander so you can have him sign his name to a slip of parchment,” Noye stated, frowning. “You want me to put my name to some cursed bargain.”

“It's less than you asked of me,” Jon stated, with venom that surprised even him.

“Heh,” Noye laughed again, “You’ve done more than I asked, King Stark,” he said, simply. “The Watch has been well and saved by your actions. Mance can’t get through the Wall while it's held by a thousand strong spears, not if he had ten times the host he does. His men will break on these walls, his host will scatter, and the rest will go back to their old ways or starve.”

“That is precisely what I fear.”

“Ah,” Noye said, growing quiet. “Ah, I see. The writhing hand.”

“Indeed.” Forty thousand souls counted themselves among Mance’s host, and if they fled or starved, the Others would take them and raise them again as unmoving corpses. “The Wights won’t break on our walls, Donal. They’ll keep coming, and coming, until every last one of us is dead, and when they’re done… You heard the tales Buckwell told.”

“The Others,” Donal replied. The word was a curse in the North, the name of a monster from legend.

“I mean to let Mance and every last barefoot Wilding that follows him through those gates, Noye, and I need you to sign the damned parchment. If you won’t call for a vote, I’ll make Whoresbane do it.”

Noye’s expression twisted angrily, but Jon cut him off before he could speak. “You told me I had to break my oaths to keep them, Noye. I’m not asking even half that. You said you’d protect the realms of men? You know what that means, now. The Realms of men don’t start at the Wall. They never have. Mance is as much a king of men as I am, I know that much.”

Jon stopped himself from saying more. Noye’s dark eyes held him, judged him, weighed his soul. King or steward, it made no difference to Noye.

“I’ll do it, boy,” Donal replied a moment later. “But don’t think for a moment that Mance won’t gut you and steal your castle if you show even a moment of weakness.”

“That won’t happen,” Jon insisted, and he wished his heart held half as much confidence as his voice.

***

“...is an outrage!” Slynt screamed, “Ridiculous! This oathbreaking bastard filled the Watch with his own men! No party should recognize this vote!”

“Those men who voted are your sworn brothers, Slynt.” Donal’s voice was as flat and as hard as an ax’s head. “If you want them to leave, you’re welcome to tell them so.”

Slynt scowled. A few such as Thorne had backed him in the vote, but Slynt had come to the Watch only recently and had too few friends to carry even a tithe of the vote. Noye had trained most of the builders and the stewards at one point or another, and his wisdom and leadership had earned him more respect than Janos’ faraway titles ever could. Jon had not said anything to the Umber men that had joined the Watch, not officially, but any man could see why they had decided as they had. Slynt had been ranting about mutiny for half an hour.

“Acting Commander Noye!” Pypar called, stumbling out from the crowd, “King Jon! The Wildlings have responded to our offer of parlay! They’ve raised half a tent into the wind, and it's nearly the right color. I think they have agreed to speak with us!”

“Then we had best be ready,” Jon replied. “Lord Mors, prepare your guard. Commander Noye, I suppose you’ll need to arrange for a guard as well.”

Jon held his heart in his throat as they rode down the great icy tunnel through The Wall itself. He half-imagined the colossal weight of the thing bearing down upon him. Did the Watch defend the Wall, or did the Wall defend the Watch? Superstition was strong amongst the builders and the stewards alike. They thought the Wall to be a living thing made of ice and snow instead of flesh, a thing that loved and cherished the Black Brothers who spent their lives under and atop the block of ice. Once Jon had scoffed at such notions, but as he looked up into the glistening dark of the curved ceiling, he could not wonder if there was some truth to the myth. Might the Wall be alive? Might it be angry with him, for what he had done, for what he was about to do?

A thought of red hair in the snow flashed before his mind and he stilled his fears. He had broken oaths, broken trust, broken Ygritte’s heart, and become accursed before gods and men but he could not turn aside. For the sake of the Watch and for all the realms of men, he had to succeed.

Mance and Tormund and Val and Varamyr and half a dozen others were gathered there in the shadow of the Wall, and Jon could not help but think how much smaller they looked from the back of a horse.

“Young Jon Snow the Crow,” Mance called, his voice rich with false mirth. “Or is that King Stark? Lord Stark? How is it that you style yourself these days? And what is old one-armed Donal doing here?”

“Show some respect, wildling! He’s a King, wilding, a real King, not that you’d know aught of that.” Mors’ horse rocked forward as if the big man meant to charge Mance’s little party.

“I know more of kings than you,” Mance replied, “I’ve seen old King Robert, young king Robb, and Jon Snow as well. Between the lot of them, I’ve not been impressed.” Mance’s eyes tightened as he turned to look at Jon. “I don’t know what deal you mean to strike here, King Stark, but your word doesn’t count for much with me. Where is Ygritte, Jon?”

“Dead,” Jon stated, letting the cold wind blow through him. “If I could have kept her alive and kept my oaths, I would have, but you know I never had that choice.”

“You broke your oaths anyway, Varamyr tells me.”

“I broke my oaths to save my brothers, you broke yours to come to destroy them. You guilt me for betraying a lover? How many of the men who raised you were you planning on killing?”

Mance laughed, “I didn’t leave to kill my brothers, I left because I was sick of killing my own kin in the name of the realms of men. I don’t bear any of the Crows any grudge, but by the Old Gods and new I’ll kill every last one of them to save these gathered behind me.”

Tormund had been growing redder and redder by the minute, scarcely able to restrain himself, but at last he could restrain himself no longer. “You think I came all this way in company with the Great Walrus and worse because I wanted to kill a bunch of crows? Har! I thought you were a callow boy, Snow, but I did not think you a fool. It’s the dead that’s chasing us into your loving arms, as you well know!”

Jon drew in a breath. “Yes, let’s talk of what we know. We both know there are forty thousand or more in your host. Some of them are women and children, but others are mammoths and giants and wargs and all manner of creatures of legend. Against that, I have less than a tenth that number, but they’re atop the Wall. Every card you had, you’ve played, and there’s nothing left but a desperate, half-starved charge. You cannot win, and even if by some miracle you got past us, you’d just find cold bare lands, hard stone castles, and sharp steel lances.

“But I’ve no more interest in your death than you have in mine. I have seen the dead walk and I have no desire to see you walk with them.” Jon nodded to Donal Noye, who urged his horse forward.

“The brothers have voted me to the position of acting Lord Commander of the Night’s’ Watch,” Noye stated, grimacing as he did as though acknowledging the title cost him somehow. “And as King Stark is prepared to offer you all a place in his lands, the Night’s Watch sees no reason to keep you from passing through Castle Black into the North.”

Mance took the proclamation calmly. He must have expected an offer like this. “Under what conditions?” he replied.

“Every one of your chieftains has to give me a hostage,” Jon said, joining back into the conversation. “They’ll be kept under lock and key here at Castle Black to begin with, then later at Last Hearth. Those who don’t mind being under the watch of the Crows can settle here in the Gift, and as for the rest, I’ll make room for you in my own lands further south.”

Mance smiled then, and this time it reached his eyes. “Might these lands you’re offering be full of rebels and ironmen?”

“You had planned from the beginning to carve out for yourself a new kingdom for your people. ?”

Val’s eyes flashed. “Most of the free folk had no plan of kneeling, Snow.”

“Kneel, or bleed, the choice is theirs,” Jon retorted. “The time for pride has passed. Every one of you will be dead in a month if you do not take my offer. As for me, my brothers are dead and my sisters have been stolen from me. Half the men who promised to serve my brother are now serving his killers and the dead that walk are as much my enemies as yours. I need your warriors to fight my enemies, your chieftains to hold my castles, your men, your women, and your children to bring in the last harvest before the snows come in. I need all of you.” He paused. “And you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrrrrryyy!!!! Amazingly, I have been in a bad mental space, and I haven't been writing! But I'm doing better now and I am writing and I think I can keep up with weekly updates once again. I have a thousand words of the next chapter done already and I'm adding more every day.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoy! Please comment, your chapters metaphorically give me life!
> 
> Thanks to my betas again. You know who you are.


	7. Rivers Run Red

The dead would have to bury themselves, Dacey could spare them no further thought.

Weeks had passed. How many, she could not rightly say, but they must have clashed with the Lannister host half a dozen times, and Riverrun remained another week distant. She had seen their position on the map in Bracken’s tent and knew that they were far north of the most direct path back to safety, but such matters were above her concern. More pressing was the lack of food. ‘An army marches on its stomach.’ That had been one of Mother’s favorite sayings, and Dacey felt the truth of it now. Men went out to ‘forage’ often enough, and sometimes they even came back, but this area of the Riverlands had been all but de-peopled, and not even banditry could keep the army fed.

They had some thousands with them still, though she could not be sure whether it was three or four or five. They never gathered in one place long enough to be counted, and there were always hundreds of stragglers. The Smalljon and Bracken and their riders remained firm at the helm, steadfast as ever, and with each day that passed Dacey felt more thankful for them. Half the army would have deserted without those two in the fore.

“We’ve found food, Lady Dacey,” her man Corran stated flatly. He was a sandy-haired boy who had come south with some mad dream of becoming a squire. Well, he bore the title of knight now, but he had lost the light from his eyes. Had that been worth it?

“That is some good news at least. What kind?”

“Bread and salted pork,” Ser Corran stated. She did not care to ask where he had found it. Some wandering boar, if they were lucky, but more likely it had been pried from some poor starving family hiding in their hovel. In the Westerlands they had reaved, but always then she had told herself that the people might travel a few villages over to where the reaving had been less bad, and save themselves.

These smallfolk were their own, and most would not live through the winter. Idly she remembered the stories her uncle had told her, of proud Bear Island standing stalwart against raiders. Had that not been her reason for coming south so long ago, to defend against the Lannisters who had raped the land of their friends and allies?

Dacey ate with her men. Outside of battle, she had not made pretense of rank since the Red Wedding. She would eat no more than them, would hear their stories, hear their questions. It was the least she could do for the few brave boys that remained with her. She forced herself to smile and nod, to say words of thanks to the men. They had to know her as a commander who trusted them, who relied upon them.

It was Ser Corran who raised the idea first. “Do you ever think, Lady Dacey, we might just cut our way free of here, meet up with your Lady Mother in the North?”

Dacey swallowed. The eyes of all the men were on her now. No doubt every one of them had the same question on their lips. Corran had a brother who had gone North with Dacey’s mother. She had an ax for a tongue, but even an ax could be wielded with skill if it came to it.

“Once we get to Riverrun, we will see,” Dacey replied. “As to breaking with the host now?” she managed a laugh, “I have thought of that every day since Harenhall. But no. We cannot. Even if my nature allowed me to betray our allies of many months, the truth is that we could not escape far. Dran and his outriders speak of the Freys rallying a host of traitors near the Twins, blocking the great causeway such that none may cross. Even if we got past them, the Ironborn still hold Moat Cailin. We would have to try for the fens, and I’d sooner take my chances with men than with lizard-lions.”

“The Reeds are loyal,” Ser Corran pressed.

“The Crannogmen are few in number and spread wide over hundreds of miles of the roughest terrain you’ve ever seen, Corran. It took us twelve days to cross the causeway when we were fresh. How long would it take us if we were moving through the swamps themselves? A month? We would be delirious, drowned, or dead long before we found them.”

No one had any more to say to that. After a moment Dacey made an effort to keep their spirits alive, to get them speaking of the old stories. Florian and Jonquil, Symeon Star-Eyes, and the tale of the Last Hero. That story perhaps felt too close to truth, and the faces of the men were somber when it finished.

The Smalljon appeared at the edge of the campfire and Dacey found the tune of the Last of the Giants coming into her mind. That described the Smalljon all too well, she thought with remorse. The big man had living family at Last Hearth, but it still seemed wrong to see Jon Umber without his mighty father alongside him. Had Jon grown taller? Or was that just a trick of the light?

“Greetings,” he rumbled, pulling himself to the campfire. The men went quiet. Lord Umber was not a person they could be familiar with, not in the way they were familiar with Lady Dacey. “Please, keep telling the old stories, I came here to listen, not to interrupt.”

Ser Corran cleared his voice and began again, the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. A newer story, in truth, but a favorite. After that came the tale of Aemon the Dragonknight, then the story of the Winter Roses. Finally, Dacey leaned forward and, catching the Smalljon’s eye, said, “Come now, Jon, you must have a tale of your own to tell, if you’ve come all this way.”

The Smalljon laughed. “I’ve only sad tales to tell.”

“Tell them anyway,” Dacey prompted, “Sad stories are the truest ones.”

“Stories aren’t any better for being true.”  
“Tell us some news then.”

“Against all rights, there are reports that the Mountain lives. One of our scouts saw him riding at the head of the Lannister host.” Jon smiled, “It’s true, but it’s not a good story.”

“It’s a bad turn, to be sure,” Dacey said with a grimace. “But it might yet have a happy ending. If I get the chance to kill that monster myself before I die it will all have been worth it.”

The men laughed at that, though there had been no humor in the statement itself. They had all given themselves up for dead long ago. What could wait for them back home? Dacey grimaced to think of it. Her nieces and sisters would scarcely know her. Ser Corran might go wherever he liked if he shed the banner of the bear. Highgarden or Sunspear or Storm’s End would all pay good coin for a new sword. Lord Umber would have to marry, would have to set his lands to rights. Dacey wondered if that idea even tempted the Smalljon. Was he like her, too drenched in death to contemplate any other sort of future?

“Well,” Ser Corran said, rising. “We can always hope for a good turn. Nothing for it but to take our sleep where we can and continue on day by day.”

Dacey nodded, and opened her mouth to reply - only to be cut off as a great horn blast split the air!

“The Lannisters, the Lannisters!” A cry went up, and faster than thought the whole camp sprang into action. The sound of the horns would be coming from their scouts, but it might already be too late. When had nighttime raids become routine? Dacey fiddled with the ties to her padded shirt and slipped into her coat of mail as she ran to find her horse. All around her a thousand men were doing much the same. Horses screamed and trumpets blew. No man knew how close the Lannisters were, no-one ever did. The Lannisters were coming and every moment the outriders bought them was worth precious blood.

She had only just mounted her horse when she heard the screams of dying men. The east, they were fighting in the east. The scouts had bought them precious little time. “Mormont!” She called “Bear Island!” Her men fell in around her in varying states of readiness. “The east side of the camp is under attack! With me!”

She nearly ran a fleeing man-at-arms over as she rode. At another point, her men had to stop entirely to move a tangled mass of carts aside. Then all at once, they stumbled into a group of horsemen who were raiding a rich lord’s tent, bodies of men half-armored strewn across the ground. For a moment, both sides merely stood in shock at coming upon each other so at random, but the shock quickly gave way to rage.

“Kill the traitors, men! Kill them all!”

Her patchwork force of horse and foot charged into the disorganized raiders and shattered them in a single sweep. Dacey’s ax came up bloody and she drew in a breath. This had not been the main force, this… It was all too dark, the campfires spread too much smoke, and nothing could be made out. But she could hear the men dying, she could see the men fleeing. A cold weight settled in her gut. Was this what it had been like, at the Battle of the Camps? The raiders should not have been able to get into the camp itself. Before the Northern remnants had always been able to rally a defense, to answer them and keep them away, but this time, this time… their pickets had caught this attack too late.

“We need to retreat, milady!” Ser Corran called, and Dacey cursed. The sounds of the dying were coming from all around them now, the fires of burning tents lit the sky around them in nearly every direction. This raid had turned into a rout.

“Retreat!” She called, “Retreat! To the river!” They had been following the Red Fork for several weeks now, and the northern edge of their camp guarded a crossing. If they could get to it, some sort of defense might be made. Perhaps other men of sense had rallied there as well.

As before, her meager force had difficulty making its way through the camp. She wanted to urge her horse into a gallop, to run faster and farther, but she could not leave her foot behind. She could not give up on them now. The Mormont men nearly collided with a party of fleeing camp followers in the dark. “Come with us, retreat to the river!” Dacey screamed. “Follow us and live!”

“There’s Lannister men the way you’re going!” They cried.

“There’s Lannister men behind us as well! But we can cut through to the river for you, and then we will be able to stand!”

They came upon the raiders in the dark, a knot of red-cloaked knights fighting Lord Bracken’s men, illuminated only by the burning tents. There were too many of them, too many for Dacey’s little force to make much difference… But here in the dark, the Lannisters might mistake her handful of knights and spearmen for a host. “Charge!” She cried, and her band charged forward.

Lannister men turned to face them… too late. Her small force was already among the red-cloaked men. Dacey took a knight’s sword on her shield, the shock traveling up her arm. She returned with an ax-blow to the side of the man’s helm, and the knight reeled back. She struck a second time and a third and at last, the man fell from his horse. Only then did Dacey realize she had been screaming herself hoarse.

“Lady Dacey!” She turned to see Bracken, his huge red horse towering over hers. She swallowed a breath and calmed herself. The Lannisters were retreating, she realized absently. “Lady Dacey, we need to make a stand,” he said, half-repeating himself. “We need to make a stand by the river!”

“I know!” She said, “Men! Form up! Behind me! Don’t chase those Lannister dogs, they’ll only pull you into a trap!” There were dozens of dead men on the ground around her, Lannister and Bracken and… other, bannerless forms that might have been washerwomen or smiths or prostitutes for all she knew. It was said an army could lose one in ten of its number before shattering entirely; how many had they lost tonight?

They formed up to march to the river, triple time, dozens of men joining their number as they rode. If they could get to the crossing, they could make a stand, they could… She shook her head. They lived for the moment, everything else must be set aside. What did she fear, death? What was death except for an old acquaintance of many months?

Men were coming. Hundreds of them by the sound. They… they bore the banner of the giant. Umber Men. Jon Umber’s men, with the giant himself at the front of them! Like those under Dacey and Bracken, the Umber men had been bloodied, and their retreat was a scattered, strung out affair with hundreds of men stretched out over a mile of bad road.

“Form up!” The Smalljon bellowed, riding up and down the length of his army, “Form up, or the lions will come from the rear and fuck us bloody! Sergeant, get your men in order!”

There were others too, Piper was there, behind Umber, as well as a few others. Behind them, the slaughter continued, and Dacey’s mind was too fatigued to account for who must be back there amidst the carnage. The men that remained moved like dead walkers, every step an effort.

The crossing. They came at last to the crossing, and then the men stopped to rest themselves. Dacey did her best to count them in the dark.

“More than I hoped,” she said, but it was a cold comfort.

“The crossing is narrow enough we can defend it from either side,” Bracken stated. Did he say that to convince his men, Dacey thought, or to convince himself? “They must have force-marched to catch us out here, they cannot be in full strength. A narrow point like this, we can hold it.”

No, thought Dacey, no we cannot. The heat of battle left her in a rush and cold realization rose to replace it. “If the Lannister horse had time to ride around to a different crossing and catch us in the rear, the Lannister foot may be nearly on top of us already.”

“If they are, there’s little that can be done about it. Would you have me try to set these men to marching?”

Dacey frowned, looking over the huddled masses of men. She saw one who had forgotten his shoes in the rush, and another who was simply staring into the void, rambling nonsense words to himself in an unending stream of gibberish. This army could not march under an open sun, let alone on a night with no moon. They would bleed a hundred men every mile, and there was nowhere to turn at all.

This… was the end. Lord Umber saw it too, she realized.

He came and stood beside her in silence a moment, looking out into the blackness across the river. “Others take the Blackfish for leading that charge,” Dacey said finally, for no other reason than to break the silence. “Others take him for dying before we were done.”

“Would it have made a difference?” Jon replied. “If he had lived, I mean. He was a good commander, but...”

“...But he wasn’t a sorcerer,” Dacey acknowledged. “He couldn’t conjure us an army from the woods.” It was a bitter pill. Where had they gone wrong? If their scouts had found the Lannister riders earlier tonight? If Blackwood had not betrayed them? If… if they had known of the betrayal of the Freys, perhaps? She laughed. Perhaps if they had never ridden south, then Robb’s army might have survived. But it was all senseless, all futile. The fates fell where they would, and man could only accept the cold of death in peace. A thousand decisions, a thousand mistakes, and now only one choice more: the decision of how to die.

“Do you think they will even make a pretense of offering us ransom?” she asked.

The Smalljon laughed. “You forget my letter, Lady Dacey. The War for the Riverlands ends tonight, but the War for the North is just beginning. You and I… there will be no pretense. I think they will want to take us captive, to bring our houses in against the brother of the Young Wolf.”

Jon Stark. She had almost forgotten the boy. Had Hother and Mors succeeded in freeing the boy from his oaths to the Watch? Surely Uncle Jeor would hear them. But then, she and the Smalljon did not even know if his letter had reached Last Hearth in the first place. But if the boy had taken up the iron crown of the North, if he had… Her resolve turned to iron.

“So we must die on their swords, then,” Dacey replied. “If a Stark rules in the North, I’ll not be used against him. I’ve failed one king, I’ll not fail another.”

“Aye,” Lord Umber replied, his eyes glittering. “Death or victory. Others take the man who settles for less.”

“Death or victory,” she murmured, touching the haft of her ax pensively. Her hands had worn the haft of the weapon smooth, and the ax had worn her hands rough. Her mother wore a Weirwood pendant around her neck, a sacred fetish which she was fond of holding while she prayed. “Death or Victory,” she said again, quieter, and this time it was a prayer.

They heard them coming before they saw them. The clanking of steel came from the far shore. The men roused themselves from their short rest and formed up on the riverbank behind hastily constructed breastworks. Finally the Lannister host did come into view, torches flickering through the woods. “They must be mad to be marching after us on a moonless night,” Dacey stated. How many must they have lost to the road and the woods?

The Smalljon chuckled. “Lord Tywin must be furious we’ve lived as long as we have. I am glad for it. These Lannister dogs will be as tired as our own men.”

“They still have twice our numbers,” she reminded him. “The force that attacked our camp is still behind us. They’ll camp on the far side of the crossing until morning and surround us. Or they will put those famous Blackwood bowmen to use and force us into charging them. We cannot march from here and live.”

“You overestimate Ser Kevan’s patience. You’ve heard of the trouble in King’s Landing, same as me. The Lannisters need this war to be over as soon as possible. I don’t doubt he’d sacrifice every man in his host if it meant he could put us down a few hours earlier.”

“It won’t make a difference in the end.”

“We’ll sell our lives better,” Jon replied, a dark smile on his lips. “It’ll make for a good story, even if I’m not here to tell it.”

Grim talk. She wondered how many of the men would be so happy to be facing their doom. The men’s faces were ashen and starved, staring down their pikes and halberds toward what they knew spelled death. None of these would be ransomed. They were from lands too distant and too poor. Many of them had been simple levies when the war started, only coming into riches and fine equipment on the field of battle.

Dacey looked around. Lord Blackfish could have rallied them, but he was dead. Piper looked half ready to flee himself, and Bracken and the Smalljon were in grim moods, pacing their horses back and forth as though they meant to charge the Lannister lines themselves. Dacey’s lip curled. She thought of riding forward herself, making a speech to inspire the men. The thought made her sick. What could she say to them? She had an ax for a tongue and there was nothing to be said, here at the end, other than to pray for a swift death.

The Lannister line was full in view now, a line of red torches illuminating red cloaks. Dacey squinted in the gloom, trying to make out the banners. She saw the Burning Tree of house Marbrand, and almost laughed to see it. The last she had seen that banner it had been lying in the dirt of a castle courtyard as Robb and his host sacked Ashemark.Would those soldiers fight more bitterly, thinking themselves to be avenging their home? Come on then, Dacey thought, come and find your vengeance, if you can, and I’ll find mine.

She turned her head to look behind, but for now there was no sign of approaching Lannisters. No doubt Ser Kevan had planned to catch what was left of King Robb’s host between hammer and anvil, but such strokes were hard to pull off even in the light of day. In the nighttime armies missed their timing by hours. Would Ser Kevan wait?

But no, the line reached the far bank and then moved forward. Ser Kevan is as impatient for battle as I am, Dacey thought with a grin. Well, good, let them have it. The Lannister host was in the crossing now, the dark waters of the river splashing under their boots as they advanced. How many were there? They seemed innumerable in the dark, but Dacey could not be sure. What archers they had left loosed into the ranks of the enemy, with little effect. These men in the front of the host were too thickly armored for the short bows of the North to find much purchase. Cries of death went up, but too few, too few. Her nerves seemed half-ready to snap, but she held firm, bracing, holding, waiting. There would be a signal, a horn blast, or perhaps a beacon, that would signal the Lannister to charge. She waited for it like a quarrel held in a crossbow.

Cries came up from the rear of their host, and Dacey felt her heart drop through her stomach. Had the Lannisters come upon them in the rear in the dark, without light or sound? It seemed impossible, it seemed.

A great series of horn blasts rang out from the crossing, and with a snarl she turned her mind back to the front. She could not afford to distract herself now, so close to the end so close… But the Lannisters were not charging. Their advance continued, but no faster than it had before. The horn blasts… they came not from the line of Westermen, but from behind them, from the woods. What could be making such a sound? Could it be reinforcements for the Westermen?

But now the signal for the Lannister charge had been given, and the men clashed in a desperate struggle on the river’s edge. In the dark, all pretense of strategy or tactics had been lost, replaced with a mad, dirty struggle for life and death. The Westermen ran forward heedless, impaling themselves on the breastworks or the pikes, or their own swords in some cases. They pushed up the bank, flooding around the battle line in a clustering, shambling mess. This was madness, sheer madness. In the gloom, no man could tell friend from foe, and chaos reigned supreme.

“They’ve left their flank exposed!” Bracken bellowed, waving a great torch. “Follow the light! Follow me toward Lannister blood!”

The remnant of the horse charged, all feelings of weariness evaporating as their blood rose to a boiling point. The tumbled forward in a mad rush, the entire wedge spreading out to avoid tripping over itself as it ran. Again the horns sounded from behind the Lannister horse. They were nearer now, and Dacey could not think what they could be. But there was no time for thought. The Northern horse splashed as they entered the shallows of the crossing, and then a moment later came the crash of first contact with the Lannister men.

Between the casualties they had taken, the spread of the force during the charge, and the lack of equipment common amongst the Northern horse, the charge had been blunted severely. Dacey pushed to the front again and struck down a boy of Crakehall with her horse’s hooves. Another man came close to her side and she turned in her saddle to lash out at him with her ax. But already they were losing steam. If they could just keep fighting if they could just…

All at once, her world pivoted and she fell. Jump clear of the horse! A crash. She had landed beside her horse, rather than under it. In the dim of the torchlight, she could make out a man charging her, spear upraised. Rise to your feet, Dacey! The man thrust toward her heart and she pulled the tip away from herself with her axehead, throwing a weak punch as she rose. The blow caught the man in his nose and he stumbled back. Dacey took his arm off with a stroke of her ax, blinking as she did. The world seemed unsteady, and bright spots were flashing in her vision. Keep your shield up, Dacey!

Another man assaulted her, and she retreated, deflecting each blow as best she could. The Northern horse was being driven back, she realized, and soon she would be left alone on the battlefield.

She was almost fighting alone now. Belatedly she noticed that Ser Corran had been alongside her this whole time, but now he too had fallen under the weight of the enemy’s advance. Dacey gave ground as fast as she could, lunging with her ax to attempt to protect herself, but the enemy advanced faster than she could retreat. Victory or death, that was the only thought she could contemplate. She swung her ax in wide arcs, trying to intimidate those near and hold them back, if only for a second longer. She would not live to fight another day, but she would die as a hero tonight. Here We Stand. Her house words echoed in her mind and set her feet to stone. She regained her footing and stood fast.

The horns from the distance sounded again as the press of bodies fell in around her. A spear glanced off her mail and she slammed its owner’s helm with the backside of her ax, stunning him. Another closed before she could finish the kill and this one she warded off with her shield, pushing into him and forcing him to fall back into his comrades. You aren’t stronger than them, Dacey thought, but with good reach and good footing, a mouse can move a mountain. Make your life count, make them pay for every drop of your blood with a river full of their own.

Her shield arm ached from weathering too many blows. Her thighs, her core, her shoulders, every piece of her ached. She moved through sheer force now, old wounds she had thought long-healed sending shivers of pain throughout her body. Fight. Fight, fight on…

And then… and then the Westermen pulled away, Leaving Dacey with only a few men on the side of the river, barely able to stand. Was Ser Kevan Lannister sounding the retreat? She heard horns, but once again they were the horns from the woods, the horns from the distance. Spots were still dancing in her vision, she could scarcely make out the distant shore. There were thousands of torches on the farther shore, but she could not make out the colors of the men who were holding them.

The torch-bearers… they were killing the Lannisters! Gods, but they must have outnumbered the Westermen three to one! No wonder Ser Kevan had called for a retreat. But she had other matters to attend to. She stirred herself and rushed to the side of Ser Corran, who lay bleeding freely into the shallows. He struggled to rise as she approached, but she stayed him with her hand.

“M’thanks, Lady Dacey,” he breathed, “M’thanks for letting me... letting me not…” but then his voice trailed off and his eyes rolled back. She breathed a prayer, not knowing if any gods would hear, and bowed her head. A carpet of bodies surrounded. Human forms littered the crossing, the waters of the river pouring over them as though they were nothing more than clumps of soil. Westermen, Rivermen, and Northmen. In the dark, she could not tell the difference between them. She cradled her friend’s head in her arms and looked up to the stars. Even those had gone dim, now, covered over by a great sheet of clouds, a great, endless void without light and without hope.

The horns called again, and she looked down. The Lannisters were beating a retreat as best they could, while the torchbearers pursued them. A part of Dacey groaned with weariness. They had won the battle, somehow, against impossible odds, but how? Why? These torchbearers must have been stalking the Lannisters for some time, killing their scouts, and remaining unseen. They must be Riverlanders, she realized, to know the land so well and to time such an assault perfectly. But where had they come from? Who commanded them?

“Lady Dacey!” She turned her head behind her to see the Northern horse arriving again to the battlefield, the Smalljon at the fore. “You are uninjured?”

She stood, and bowed, every fiber of her being protesting with the effort. But bowing felt easier than speaking at the moment.

“Gods be good,” the Smalljon rumbled. “But we have been blessed with more than one miracle tonight. Do you know who these torchbearers are?”

She shook her head. Some of them were coming closer now, close enough that Dacey could see them to be rag-wearing, colorless warriors with scavenged mail and no proper coat of arms. They looked half like corpses come-to-life, so rusted and stained was their equipage.

“Who is in command?” One of them called. “Our King would treat with you!”

“As Lord Bracken has been wounded, I lead this host!” The Smalljon replied, “But what king do you serve? We serve only the King in the North!”

“Ours is the Red King,” the man replied, “The King who died and was returned to life, the emissary of the Red God, brought back to wreak vengeance on those whose misrule has ruined these lands. You will treat with him?”

No reply was made for the moment, the Smalljon looking over their huddled, starving masses that they called an army. Dacey said a silent prayer, hoping that the Smalljon’s pride would bend a little this once. Whoever this Red King was, he had saved them and could kill them now if he liked.

“We will meet,” Lord Umber replied. “Where is this Red King?”

The messenger bowed, “If you would follow me and mine…”

Jon Umber huffed. “Maxwell, Garl, Taff… form up what’s left of my honor guard. Someone get Lady Dacey a horse! I’ll have her and Lord Piper with me as well if they are willing.”

“Jon...” she half-whispered, “Why am I being included in this council? There are more notable lords who you are overlooking.”

“You were the one who saved us at the Red Wedding, whereby all accounts we should have died.” He smiled, his teeth reflecting the light of the torches. “You’ve lived again now when the odds were even worse. Whatever luck the gods bestow, they’ve given you a double measure, and I’ll not leave you behind if I can.”

Dacey snorted. The gods could take her luck and curse some other poor bastard with it. But she mounted the horse they brought her all the same and rode out behind the messengers that had come from the host of the torchbearers. They were in and among them now, and Dacey did not much like what she saw. They were picking over the corpses of Westermen like hounds fighting over a kill, laughing and fighting and cursing as they went about the grim business. Some of them had livery of this house or that. Blackwood, Bracken, Cerwyn, or Glover… all assorted houses from the Northern host. These must be deserters, she realized, or some of them must be. Forces that had been scattered at the Twins or earlier. Who had rallied them, who had brought them together?

They were amongst the trees now, tall trees with broad leaves that blocked out even the distant torchlight. The world was truly black now, save for the torches they carried with them, and Dacey could half imagine the branches reaching out to pluck them from their horses. Whoever this king was, he had stayed far back from the fighting.

The trees parted up ahead to reveal more of the Red King’s men, perhaps a hundred or so gathered in a clearing not far in the woods. In the center of the clearing stood a Weirwood sapling, scarcely twice as tall as a man. Before the tree, in the center of those gathered, but apart from them, sat a boy, facing away from them, cleaning a longsword with utmost care. Dacey felt bile rise into her mouth as the tangy smell of blood filled the air. Only now did she see that the redness of the ground around the tree was no trick of the torchlight, but that the grass had been made slick with blood. The men were chanting loudly, offering praise for their king, until at last he stood and silenced them with a single wave of his hand.

“Men of the North,” the King stated loudly, “You have come far and fought well… Who do you serve?”

“We serve the King in the North,” the Smalljon stated, his voice firm. “We are not callow boys, do not think to intimidate us with this mummery.”

“There is no King in the North,” The Red King stated. “And if there were, what would his kingdom be? Burnt farms, empty castles, and homeless vagrants? Is this the domain of your King in the North?”

“Do not think to hold us in contempt,” the Smalljon snarled, and would have said more, had not Dacey interrupted him.

“Why will you not turn around, Red King, and show us your face?” something of the Red King’s voice had set her mind whirling with possibility. Who was this boy and how did he command such loyalty? Why did he remind her so much of her long-dead king?

The boy turned, and Dacey nearly lost the meager rations she had eaten the day before. From behind, the boy had looked no different than any other. Brown hair streaked with gray, pale white skin under the nape of the neck… but now, but as he turned and the front of his face came into view, she saw the terrible red-pink color of his skin, as though his whole face were an angry red scar. She could scarcely bear to look at it, but even worse were the eyes. Blue eyes, bright as a star, bright as… the pair of eyes she had last seen in the Twins, eyes she had thought extinguished forever.

“Your Grace...” she breathed, “Your Grace, can it be....” Hope blossomed within her. This… this was impossible, and yet, this was King Robb, her own King Robb Stark, come to them again somehow after so many had died. All the terrors she had endured, all the terrible wickedness she had done… had it all been worth it?

“No,” The King said, his face twisting in a grimace. “I am not the King you knew. I died in the waters, but I have been reborn with the gift of the Lord of Light. I come now not to rule, not to bring order, but to kill and destroy. We cannot bring our brothers, mothers, fathers, and sisters back to life, but we may yet repay treachery with its just reward. I cannot promise you gold, or lands, or even long life and happiness, but I can promise you blood, I can promise you purpose.”

The Smalljon was at a loss for words. Slowly he dismounted, and then swiftly dropped to one knee in a vow of fealty. “You were my King and you are, now and forever.” he said quietly, “The Red King!” he shouted, and Dacey found herself and half the guard shouting along with him. “The King of Blood and the King of Vengeance!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	8. Cage of a Mockingbird

“Keep up, Arri, or I’ll feed you to my horse.”

Lord Baelish’s camp spread itself over the hills like a great patchwork quilt. Hundreds of men scurried every way, eager and full of smiles. They must have not fought in any battles yet, Arya thought glumly. Robb’s army at the Twins had been fighting since the beginning and their faces had been hard and serious. But those men were all dead, Arya remembered. Carder had said that Lord Baelish was going to avenge Robb, but Sandor had sworn that was a lie. Arri wrinkled her nose. Since when had she cared what the Hound thought? Her father had trusted Baelish.

Bolton had been as bad as a Lannister, she reminded herself, and Robb had trusted him. She knew better than to give her trust easily. She would see this Baelish for herself and make judgement. The Hound could do little to stop that much, even if he wanted. Whatever might happen, Grey Wind was not far from here. 

“What’s Littlefinger got on you?” Sandor stated, addressing the knight who had collected them on the highway.

“Gold,” Brune stated flatly. “I’m no sellsword, but you can’t buy bread with honor alone.”

“Sure, he’s paying you,” Sandor chuckled, “But what does he have on you?”

Brune sighed, “If he did have any control over me beyond my wages and my oaths, why would I ever tell someone of your quality about it?”

“Someone of my quality?” The Hound spat. “You work for fucking Littlefinger and you’re talking about quality?”

Brune did not even deign to reply, just rode on in silence. Arya winced to hear it. If Baelish was a true fellow, why then did his sworn sword take such an insult lying down? Jory would have drawn steel against a man who said such a thing against her father. But men like Father or even like Jory were not half so common as she wished they were.

Heads turned as Sandor rode through the camp. Everyone knows the Hound’s ugly face, Arya thought bitterly. She wished she had been stuck with someone like Brune instead. He seemed quiet and boring. People wouldn’t turn to stare at him. But then, if they were not staring at him perhaps they might stare at her instead, and she was not sure if she would like that. Arya had never sought after attention, but she had envied Sansa at times. Now I’m the pretty one, she thought with something like a smile, and still no one stares at me.

Soon they were well into the heart of the camp, away from the washerwomen and the quartermasters and the smiths. Knights were everywhere now, followed by little parade bands of red and green and yellow. They looked like painted soldiers, Arya thought with contempt. They looked like the little doll that girl in the village had dragged everywhere.

“We’ve arrived,” Brune stated, dismounting in front of one of the many stables scattered throughout the camp.

“Where is Baelish?” Sandor grumbled, dismounting in turn along with Arya.

“We’re to await his arrival,” Brune replied, calmly handing his horse off to a stableboy. A boy came to take Craven away from Arya, but she snatched the reins away from him before he could leave.

“For fuck’s sake, Arri, give the boy your horse,” Sandor cursed, “Take Stranger with them and try not to get your hand bit off.” Arya’s lip curled but she did as she was told. None of the stableboys would be able to manage the Hound’s wild horse, but the big black stallion would listen to Arya most days. “And get back here when you’re done, you lazy shit,” Sandor yelled after her. 

By the time she made it back some servants had laid out a table with refreshments between Sandor and Brune, and Arya’s stomach rumbled at the sight of the food. Fresh-baked rolls fashioned into the shape of rabbits, sliced cheese, and a crystal pitcher sparkling with arbor gold... Light fare, barely more than a mid-morning morsel, but after months of salted beef and moldy bread, she felt as though she had stumbled upon buried treasure. Had she truly eaten such wonderful treats every day? Thoughts of home welled up in her and threatened to overflow. She spied a half-eaten tray of lemon squares and nearly burst into tears.

But Arya did not cry, not then. Why should she? She was Arri, and Arri had never been accustomed to such luxury as this. She sat down next to the Hound in silence as he guzzled down a flagon of the Arbor Gold. Would Ser Brune notice if she stole the cheese? Sandor finished his wine, grunted, and pushed the basket full of rolls to her, sparing her any further contemplation of theft.

She bit the head off the first bread-rabbit, savoring the lightness of the bread, the sweetness of the glazing. Then she ate all the rest of it at once and reached for another, not even bothered by her own unwashed hands.

Horses were coming. Arya stole three more rolls from the basket and a wedge of cheese before they arrived, earning a raised eyebrow from Brune.

“The Lord Paramount of the Trident, Petyr Baelish!” a herald called, and Arya saw now that it was him, at the head of the host, looking much the same as he had when he had ridden around the capital with her father. He was not tall or strong, but he had smirking confidence as though he knew more than you. Would he recognize her? She looked different now, she knew. Had it been two namedays or three since he had last seen her? Did she want him to recognize her?

She rose with Sandor and Brune as Lord Baelish dismounted. Baelish took his time, removing his gloves and regarding the Hound coldly. Arya bowed quickly, remembering that she was Arri, a simple squire. As she raised her head, she realized that Sandor himself had remained standing stiff and tall.

“Joffrey’s dog has gone feral, it seems.” Baelish observed evenly, “You must know that I hold your life in my hands, Sandor Clegane. Disrespect such as this is futile.”

“If you wanted me dead I wouldn’t be in the middle of your camp eating sweets. What is it you want me to do for you?”

“At present? Nothing. But I find that I might have a use for a dog. Sometimes I will want you to kill things for me. Other times I’ll want you to threaten to kill things for me.”

“The same thing everyone wants me to do, it seems.”

“Are you good for anything else?”

The Hound shrugged. “Never had to find out.”

Baelish raised an eyebrow. “Yes… you will serve. Unless you’ve lost your belly? But no, even then it does not truly matter.” His voice came quick and low now, possessed by an energy Arya had never seen him show around her father. But people behaved differently around people of lower rank, she knew. She had seen it often enough, back when she had been known as Arya Underfoot, poking her nose into every servant’s business.

“Even if you’ve lost your belly for war,” Baelish continued, “Your status as a warrior and a villain will be sufficient for my purposes. You’re huge, recognizable. Your history with House Lannister is known, and that will play into my hands. Some will see me as sheltering a traitor, others will see me as a catspaw for Queen Cersei… I can use that to my advantage.” He paused. “I will pay you of course. Gold, titles… everything you could want.”

The Hound snorted. “Everything I could want? And what do you think that is?”

“Whores, food, and wine? That’s what you spent your coin on when I knew you. But then...” he paused and touched his own goatee, “You’ve always been a miserable dog, now that I think of it. Is there something else you desire? Speak it aloud. You know that I have connections.”

“I want to kill my brother,”

“Of course!” Baelish laughed, “You and half of Westeros. Did you know that the Imp put Oberyn Martell on his small council? I can try to arrange a chance for you, dear dog, but I can’t guarantee someone else won’t get to him first.”

“A chance is all I want.”

“Overall,” Baelish said, his smile now broad and leering, “I think you’ll find me a most equitable master, compared to the late King Joffrey,” Joffrey. Arya bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. He was dead? Good. “I can protect you from the many, many people who want your head, I can pay you better than Cersei ever did, and I won’t even ask you to beat small children.”

“Is that what Brune here is for? To beat the children you’re not giving to me?” Arya’s eyes went to the gray-haired knight, who merely rolled his eyes at the insult and took a bite from an apple.

“Hardly,” Baelish replied, his demeanor altering suddenly. He straightened his back and reined his smile into something more innocent and pure. “I’m a different sort of man here than I was in the capital. I’ve altered considerably since you know me. I’m married, dear dog, and I’m a ruler now. Responsibility changes a man. Family changes a man.”

“That’s been my experience,” Sandor replied, sighing. “Well, I was meaning to look for work anyway, suppose it might as well be with you. I’ll be your dog, loyal as you please.”

“Very good.” Baelish paused and looked straight at Arya as if he was only now realizing her presence. She froze, like a bug pinned up in a Maester’s collection, pierced by Baelish’s too-sharp eyes. Baelish had been in and amongst her father’s household a dozen times in that month in the capital. Surely he would know her?

“...who is this?” Baelish asked Sandor.

“I’ll be fucked if I know,” Sandor replied. “Some Northerner’s get I found crawling in a ditch and made into a squire.”

“My name’s Arri,” Arya hissed. A man needs a name.

Lord Baelish’s smile vanished, “Keep your boy’s tongue in line or I’ll have it ripped from him,” he stated calmly. “I know you like your pets to have some fight in them, but I do not care much for insolence.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Baelish said with a sigh. “But before we part, there is one thing more. I have a daughter here in the camp with me.”

“I don't recall as you had a daughter.”

“You wouldn’t. I never took her to King’s Landing. The city is so unhealthy for a young woman. I never mentioned her nor brought attention to her. Despite this, you may find that she resembles someone you knew in the capital, but you must understand: You do not know her, and you have never seen her before. Any resemblance must be pure coincidence.”

Arya felt Sandor’s spine go rigid with tension next to her. “I’m not my brother,” he grumbled scornfully, “I know how to behave.”

“Ah, but do you understand? She’s a fragile little rose, dog, and a big ugly brute like you might scare her. If I so much as hear of you coming near her I will cut your disgusting head off your shoulders, pack it in salt, and send it to the Lannisters. I am sure the Queen will be overjoyed.”

Something sparked in Sandor’s eyes but it stayed deep. “Huh,” he grunted. “Getting executed, that’s one thing, but I’ll not give that bitch any satisfaction if I can help it.”

Baelish’s dark expression disappeared, leaving no trace of it’s having ever been present. “So glad we could come to an understanding. Now, I have other more important things to manage than the loyalty of one Sellsword. Brune will make arrangements for you.”

Baelish replaced his riding gloves, mounted his horse, and then was gone again in the space of a few minutes. Should Arya have revealed herself to him? That had been her chance, she thought bitterly. But he had talked of working with the Lannisters, and also of working against them? Was he for Robb or against Robb? She grabbed another rabbit roll and bit its head off angrily.

The Hound was in a foul mood and did not so much as say a word to her until they were safely alone in the tent Brune had provided for them.

“Why the fuck did you give him your name?” He growled, his voice low and threatening.

“Why aren’t we leaving yet if he’s friends with the Lannisters?” She hissed in reply, “He called himself the Lord Paramount of the Trident. That’s my grandfather’s title! I can guess who gave it to him.”

He leaned in, his breath hot and full of wine. “Don’t tell aught to me of politics or scheming. You’re a fucking child, little shit, and your head is as full of song as your sister’s.”

Arya stepped back, remembering now why she had once been terrified of the big man.

“You might hate me,” he continued, “but Littlefinger is a different sort from me. No one orders Littlefinger to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Everything he does, he does because it was part of his plan, and he’s always got a plan. I know for a fact he has men watching us, waiting for us to run, and they’ll happily cut us down afore we get free. But if we play nice? If you keep your fucking mouth shut? We can be safe for a little while. Get some food, get some rest.”

“He’s taking us back into the Riverlands!” Arya growled. She felt like she had spent half her life in the Riverlands.

Sandor drew in a deep breath. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

Arya opened her mouth and closed it again. Grey Wind had wanted her here. He had wanted her with the Hound. If she tried to leave now… would the wolf just guide her back to Sandor?

“Who is Baelish’s daughter?” She said, after a moment.

“He doesn’t have a daughter,” the Hound said, turning away.

“Well then who are you supposed to be keeping away from?”

“Someone else,” He supplied, looking about the tent. Arya too became aware of how thin the flaps of the tent were. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Sandor said at last. “We’ve made too much noise, and besides, I have to decide what I’m going to do about it. Now help me get out of this armor.”

She had no more to say to that. For better or for worse, she had to trust Sandor. There was no one else, not anymore, and Grey Wind trusted him for some reason. Was she betraying Mycah? She had barely known him, how could she betray him? There were so many dead boys in the Riverlands, she almost felt numb thinking about it. So many of Robb’s, and… so many others too.

Arya went to sleep early that night. For the first time in what felt like years, she had a proper fur to sleep on and a full belly. No wolf dream came that night, just a dream of her walking through the tall grass in the hills above Winterfell, as the night sky danced above her. Grey Wind slept nearby, curled into a ball, but she was glad for him. Robb was there too, and that was how she knew this was a dream. He looked older, sadder despite his smile, and they talked for hours and hours but she could never remember what they were talking about. She wiggled her toes in the grass. 

“Why did you have to die?” She asked, at last, as her control over her own mind returned.

“Everyone dies, Arya,” Robb said, “But as long as you remember me, a part of me remains.”

“I won’t forget. I won’t...” she said, hot tears stinging her cheeks.

He laughed, and then awkwardly moved to muss up her hair as Jon had always done. “Get some rest little one, you’ve more than earned it.”

She blinked away the tears, blinked… and then she was awake, all at once, a hundred sensations rushing to her. The mud between her toes, the wetness of the grass around her, the sounds of midnight… had she walked up here in her sleep? Once, when she was little, she had awoken in Sansa’s bed, though she had never remembered getting up in the night. Was this like that?

Grey Wind’s great shaggy head rose from the grass and smiled doggilly at her, and she rushed to hug him, crying pitifully. “I’m glad you are real,” she said, her face deep in his ruff, “I’m glad I’ve got you.” He let out a huff of air, shrugged her off, and walked away. Without a thought, Arya moved to follow him. They couldn’t be on the hills above Winterfell, so where were they? A moment later her question was answered, as she saw the whole of Lord Baelish’ camp spread out beneath them, the light of the moon bright on the tents and the banners.

Grey Wind yawned, lay down, and looked out. Arya frowned and lay down with him. “What is it?” she asked aloud and cursed herself a moment later. Grey Wind could not talk.

The nearest part of the camp was the Northern end of the camp, she realized. She must have been walking for hours to come all the way up here. She should not be here! Baelish had said… but Baelish had said that to the Hound, not to Arri. And she was a Stark of Winterfell! She did not need to take orders from the likes of Lord Protector Petyr Baelish, no matter how many fancy new titles he had.

The great tent beneath them must be his, she realized. It was a great tall thing of expensive cloth, almost a castle as much as it was a tent, with a low privacy wall erected around it to form a small courtyard. For all his hard talk Baelish must truly be a very soft man, to require so much finery. She wondered idly if she might see her cousin or her aunt walking about the courtyard, but even as the thought entered her head she knew it was unlikely. The hour was late and all men of station had long gone to bed, with only a few servants and couriers and guards running about. In the courtyard of the Lord Protector’s tent, there was only one, a brown-haired girl saying her prayers before a small shrine of the seven.

What might she be praying, Arya wondered. What struggles did some little Vale girl have to face in her life, that she would need to pray? Arya herself had not prayed in months. Maybe she should start. After all, Jon had said the direwolves were gifts from the gods, and perhaps they could bring one more of them to her. Arya dipped her head just a moment and then raised it again a moment later. The girl remained still for a moment longer, but soon raised her own head and stood and…

Sansa. Sansa was here. Sansa was here now.


	9. Battle of the Bastards

Jon’s memories of Winterfell had been of summer snows, long days of sunlight glinting off the glass gardens, and the sound of ravens in the godswood. If he closed his eyes it was almost as if he could turn back time to two years ago, when he had been young and foolish and unhappy despite it all. 

When he opened his eyes, the truth assaulted him. The glass gardens shattered, the towers gutted, the walls burnt black… Winterfell was nothing more than a great carcass, like the ribs of a whale washed up on a beach, reduced to nothing more than a den of wild dogs. The streets of Winter’s town should be teeming with men and women fleeing the hardships of winter, availing themselves of Lord Stark’s charity, but instead they lay barren and dead. If those families were not coming to Winterfell for aid, where had they gone instead? The likely answer to that question gave Jon no pleasure.

The Bolton men had deployed with Cerwyn and Dustin and others behind the castle itself. The scouts said the enemy had six thousands to Jon’s ten, but for every proper soldier in Jon’s host he had two Wildlings or clansmen with little in the way of steel or discipline. They had too few pikes, too few horses, too few of anything worth having in an army, and the snow made everything difficult. His only advantage lay in the giants and their mammoths, but even those... The Essosi used elephants in war, but only after draping them in armor and making them half-mad with potions. If Jon brought them near the line of battle, they would go half-mad after only a few arrows and then rage their way through Jon’s own host. Giants were better and worse. Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg was a great warrior and had surprised Jon with his cunning, but they were too tall and too easily shot with bows. Had he a thousand gold dragons and a month, he might have commissioned some sort of armor for them… but time was one thing they did not have.

“This battle will be a bloodbath if it goes poorly,” Mors stated, giving voice to Jon’s thoughts. “Roose in the castle and his bastard dog behind it. Whichever one we attack, the other will come behind and fuck us bloody, and these wildings aren’t worth the shit they leave on the ground. We should have laid siege to Castle Cerwyn first, cut off their food. It’s a weaker castle and the lands by the White Knife are easier to forage in.”

Forage. That was what men of war called it. Simple banditry was what it had amounted to, and with winter so near it would be nothing short of murder. If they had no other choice, he would give the order to forage himself, but the time had not yet come for that. These lands were where he had grown up, where he had ridden with Robb and Theon. He knew many of these farmers by sight if not by name. 

Jon had known Lady Cerwyn too. The lands of House Cerwyn were less than a day’s ride from Winterfell and Jon had visited them often. She had been Lady Jonelle then, not Lady Cerwyn. But the war had taken her brother and her father from her and now only she remained of her house, little more than a Bolton hostage. Of all Roose’s allies, Jon felt pity for her most of all.

“I have no quarrel with Lady Cerwyn,” Jon replied after a moment. “She has no love for Bolton, I am sure, and if we return her lands to her unspoiled she will join us happily.”

Mors said nothing, but he did not have to. Jon knew the words the old man wanted to use. Soft-hearted, reckless, inexperienced. Perhaps he was right. But patience and caution could lose a war as easily as recklessness. Without a place to settle the Wildlings, they would starve in the coming winter while Bolton’s forces would grow stronger, bolstered by reinforcements from the south. If he could end Bolton here, they could settle the Wildlings and their herds, connect with whatever remained of Robb’s host, clear the Ironborn from Deepwood Motte, and convince the Manderlys to join forces with him... Would that be enough? A pair of cold blue eyes entered his thoughts unbidden.

“Craven as they are, I wish we had more wildlings,” Mors rambled on. “Could have sent them up to the castle, and then won the battle before Roose finished making butchery of ‘em.”

Jon’s lip curled. How well would Mors like it if his own men were talked of in such a way? He felt the urge to strike the man for insolence. “Tormund sieges the Dreadfort and keeps your lands safe from reprisal. He and his cannot be spared,” Jon replied, “As to the rest…” he laughed. “Do you mean to tell me you intend to hide behind herdsmen and hunters? They are better off in the Gift where we left them. Mance and Val and those as follow them will be enough for us.” 

“Val,” Mors sneered, “I suppose she’s the only wildling you really need, eh?” Stories of Ygritte had become common in the camp. There had been no avoiding it, with so many of the wildling host kept so close. Just one more thing men would hate him for, Jon thought with annoyance.

“The wildlings at least obey me without question,” Jon stated, anger hot on his tongue. It was a lie. Rattleshirt had left the host to raid the fat of the land not more than a fortnight earlier. Harma Dogshead had brought his head back to Jon on a pike. “See to your men, Mors, we march within the hour.”

Mors left, showing only the barest minimum of respect. Insolence. He had expected another Robb, leading them to glorious victory after glorious victory, with easy charm and open-handed virtue. Instead, they got a bastard, orphan, son of whore who had slept with a wildling and seemed certain to lead them into doom. Well, let them talk. He would show them his quality.

Jon turned to face his honor guard. These were rough men from Wull and Burley and Norrey, thick with hair and dour expressions, wielding greatswords as large as Ice and riding hairy horses little larger than ponies. “Would any of you wish to voice objection? If so, I urge you to make haste, we march within the hour.”

A few chuckled, a few grimaced, but most made no expression at all. “Mors is no craven,” the Wull said after a moment. “He said nothing to you his own men weren’t saying around the campfires last night.” 

“Mance Rayder will give us victory.”

“Mayhap,” Hugo replied. “Most of the men would be happy to believe that. But men look at a castle, a castle like Winterfell, and their confidence in a scheme becomes less sure. ‘Can we really take such a great place with only a few thousands?’ They ask. Your scheme is a good one, but schemes are always uncertain.”

“All things are.”

“Not all. Some things you can depend on. Service. Winter. Death. More hopeful men than I might trust to steel or stone or gold, but we have little enough of those in this host. What am I to tell my men? The Boltons occupy a great castle, a great rock that has never been taken by storm, and you tell your men to charge at it. Men are not made of steel. You must give them something certain, Stark.” Stark. He felt a shiver run through him every time they called him that. Hugo was the Wull, Bill was the Burley, and Jon was the Stark. What had he ever wanted more than to share his father’s name? But now he was the Stark, the only one, and these greybeards meant to ask him for guidance.

“Winter is coming,” he said, and he did not know which way he meant it. His father always meant the words as a warning, a call to caution and foresight, but the old kings of winter had intended the words to be a threat. Winter is death and so are we. “If the men are certain of nothing else, let them be sure that Winter is coming.” 

The hour passed too slowly for Jon’s liking. The sun crept its way along the southern horizon slowly, a faint patch of light in a sky of steel. Fear and anger warred within him, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out… but at least no doubt remained. He had made peace with the wildlings, with the Night’s Watch, with the Mountain Clans, but there could be no peace between Stark and Boltons. His brother’s blood cried out for vengeance, but even if Roose had merely been an upstart lord there could have been no compromise. Roose lay claim to the seat of Eddard Stark, the seat of Jon Stark, and large as Winterfell was, it could not support two Kings. Neither Bolton nor Stark could rule the North while the other drew breath.

“Sound the advance,” Jon stated, and a chorus of horn blasts sounded in reply. Like a glacier falling into the sea, the formations of men shuffled forward. The wildlings moved in front, clutching bows and fistfuls of steel-tipped arrows. Those arrows could have pierced mail if strung on a proper bow, but the wildling bows were light weapons used for hunting or raiding, not weapons of war. Still, there were thousands of them, and even if only one in a hundred arrows found their mark, it would be enough to force the Boltons to charge. 

The flayed man of the Boltons shifted in response to them, remaining squarely behind the castle, taunting Jon to break himself on Winterfell’s ancient walls. They had set up in the abandoned streets of Winter’s Town, and would not be easily displaced. 

For what seemed like an hour, no sound came but the steady crunch of snow under the feet of his men, but then came the missiles. Two blackened stones hurled out from Winterfell, crashing into the wildlings as they advanced. One missed, luckily landing amidst the loose crowd of wildlings, but the other crushed a black-bearded warrior outright as it fell. The man lay there in the snow, screaming raw agony. A few of his friends moved to help him, but it was too late, and the host parted around the fallen man and his friends as they continued forward.

More stones crashed into his host. Three men died. They marched on. Arrows loosed from the walls and fell amidst them. Men were dying, how many he could not say but their screams filled the air from every direction. Jon closed his helm and reminded himself to be calm. This was no place for rage, for fury. His commanders thought him a green boy and he could not give truth to their thoughts.

“TUN WEG DAK!” The call went up from the rear of Jon’s host, a great bellowing voice like the roar of a lion, and a shiver ran down Jon’s spine as great stones passed over his head to smash in the walls of Winterfell. Slings were crude weapons, but in the hands of giants as mighty as Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg and his kind they may as well have been scorpions.

Poorly aimed scorpions, Jon had to admit. For every stone that had found its mark, three had come up too short or too far. Jon was happy he had told them not to loose into the melee. Giants had strong arms, but weak eyes, and only a few weeks of training with the slings. Mag would not win this battle for them, and they had to press on.

Jon had not made any pretense of giving the wildlings strict orders. Val’s archers traded arrows as soon as the Bolton army came within range. Jon could not see how many of them found their mark. Would it be enough to force Ramsay out from the ruins of Winter’s Town? Jon’s grip on Longclaw whitened. But soon the banner of the flayed man began to approach. His gambit had paid gold, but what came next?

Jon could see them properly now. These were soldiers from the lands near Winterfell, soldiers whose colors and arms he knew well. The thick segmented plate of the Barrow Guard, the long pikes of House Cerwyn. The Bolton men were new to Jon, but they cut a distinctive appearance in the snow, with their great shields painted bright pink, a tribute to the old tradition of covering their shields with the flayed skin of their enemies. The wildlings melted away from their approach, falling behind the ranks of Umbermen and Mountain clan champions. Stone clubs and bronze swords were of little use against castle-forged steel.

Screams and clamor rose up as the lines collided. Each side had spread as wide as they could in an attempt to outflank the other, and for a moment the Boltons on the left flank looked as though they would wrap around the left flank of the host and tear them apart, but then a spearhead of wildlings led by Harma and Val circled around from the back. The wildlings could not win that fight, not even outnumbering their enemy three to one, but they would at least hold for the moment. Battles like this, between great lines of men, would always be slow, torturous affairs. There could be no stunning victories, no glorious charges, only the bloody business of men in steel trying to kill other men in steel.

Jon would have given his right eye for even a hundred heavy cavalry. With a scant hundred he could sweep around and crush the enemy from the flank or rear. Had it been five years or ten since his father had shown him how to do that with blocks of wood laid out on a map? But there were no heavy horse to be had in the North. All had gone south with Robb, never to return.

They were losing, Jon realized with a grimace. The left flank had been righted for the moment, but it was the right where the true danger lay. Already the line had begun to buckle. Already, mere minutes after the battle had begun, were the Umbermen losing steps. Mors himself had committed to the melee, a tower of black raging as the Barrow Guard pushed into his men.

Jon spurred his horse forward. Ghost and the champions of the Mountain clans fell in around them as they charged through the gaps in Jon’s formation. These were not heavy horse he was riding with, Jon reminded himself. They could not rout the Barrow Guard on a charge. But if they could buy time, just a little more time… He heard nothing, saw nothing, but the ground before him and the line of the enemy. They were free of the allied host now, circling around to face the flank. Jon had tilted against Robb a thousand times in the yard, but never with live steel. His steel was true, but was his arm? Was his blood?

Every bone in his body ached as they crashed into the Barrow Guard. Longclaw flashed into the eye socket of a man’s helmet and came up bloody. He arced his Valyrian steel down again to cleave another helm in two. Ghost leapt over the falling corpse to trample three men under his great paws and tear a fourth man’s head off with a single bite. The Umbermen cheered, swelling forward as the Barrow Guard fell back.

Mors rode over to Jon, a fierce light in his eyes. “Sound the retreat,” he growled. “We’re barely holding as it is and Roose will sally out in a moment and fuck us bloody!”

“Not yet!” Jon shouted. “Not yet!”

“Sound the retreat, you bastard!” Mors screamed. “Mance has failed us!” Mors yelled, and Jon’s guards moved to put themselves between them. Mors cursed, and then opened his mouth to speak...

But whatever he had meant to say was lost to noise as a great horn blast split the air, and Jon thought of the Horn of Joramun from the song that had been said to wake the giants from the earth. For a moment every man paused from their work of butchery and looked to Winterfell, to the gatehouse. There at the peak, in colors of motley stood Mance Rayder, a massive horn of gilded ivory pressed to his lips. Dead Bolton men lay dead at his feet, and behind him rose direwolf of House Stark.

“A Direwolf!” the men cried, “A Direwolf for House Stark!” As one man they pushed forward, taking ground where before they had been giving it. The Bolton line shattered, stunned to see their great bulwark turned against them, and soon it had become a route altogether. “Keep in formation!” Jon screamed, “Head for the Gate! To the Gate!” But Umbermen were already pouring into Winterfell, a tide of red and gray.

Mance was waiting for him when he came to the castle, looking down from atop the open gates of Winterfell as Jon had seen Rodrik Cassel do so many times. “Does a Stark beg entrance into Winterfell from a wildling?” Mance called, his eyes bright with laughter. 

“If you meant to keep me out you should have kept the gates closed,” Jon replied. Home, he thought with something like a smile. Home at last, even if little remained of the home he had known. Shattered windows, charred remains of the servants quarters… and the servants themselves, they were gone too, replaced by raiders and soldiers and corpses. He felt like he was stepping into a tomb. Perhaps he was.

“A wildling raising the Stark Direwolf,” Jon said as the King of the Wildlings descended from the wall to greet him. Bolton men were throwing down their spears all around. “That seems worthy of one of your songs. Or is it wrong for a bard to sing of his own deeds?”

“If a man does not sing of his own deeds, then what right does he have to sing of others?” Mance replied with a smile, but the smile was tight around the edges. “How fare Dalla and the babe?”

“The rider most recently come from Last Hearth said he left them in good health a week ago. When Winterfell is secure we will bring them here,” Jon replied. “What of Lady Cerwyn? Can you take me to her?”

“I am quite well, Your Grace,” said Jonelle Cerwyn, who walked toward them in the yard. She was much as Jon remembered her, thin and hard as a whip, with dark brown hair and jet black eyes. Perhaps she had a few lines around her eyes now, but when so much else had changed what did that count for? Jon was happy to see a familiar face, happy to see that she bowed to him as he approached.

“Milady Cerwyn,” Jon said, accepting her offered hand and kissing it chastely. “I am glad to see that you are preserved.”

“I thank you for your concern, your Grace. Your bard Abel has regaled me from many a weary night in these months of my imprisonment with tales of the outside world. Only now he tells me he was a king, and I must wonder, for I have never seen a king in motley.”

“Perhaps Kings should wear motley more often,” Mance replied, “It would certainly be more honest of them.”

“I have been a fool before,” Jon acknowledged evenly. “But the only fool today is Bolton. Have your men found him?”

“He was in the keep when my men took the gatehouse, and he is there still.”

“Then he will keep for the nonce,” Jon said with a scowl. The castle was all but theirs, and they could starve the Leech Lord out at their leisure. Would this ease Robb’s spirit? But no, he must concern himself with the living. “You are willing to swear fealty to me and acknowledge me as your rightful king? Mors Umber has the will with him still.”

She almost laughed. “I was among the first who acclaimed your brother as king in the North. I know well of the love he bore you. What cause do I have to disbelieve such a will? I acknowledge you as my King. But what of you, will you have me as your vassal? I have served Bolton. He came upon my party as we crossed the neck and made me his prisoner. My castellan Theomore Raiklin has been his dog ever since. Does this show me to be an unfaithful vassal? Should I have cast myself from the window of the Great Keep? Tried to steal a sword and fight my way free?”

“You gave service when it was asked. That is all I could ever require,” Jon replied. “Consider matters between us settled. What do you know of the army in the field?”

“Roose’s dog has command, but Barbrey’s man Corre holds his leash. My own foot are under Theomore Rakelin, but I could not safely get word to him in time.” She pursed her thin lips.

Jon nodded. Mance had only sent them word of his plan a few nights ago, and many eyes would be watching this Theomore. How many men of Cerwyn had died fighting on the side of Jonelle’s enemies? Jon wished that thought gave him pain, but all he felt was numbness. “Roose put your men in the front,” he told her, “but the fighting was harder on the flanks. For now, it is to our advantage that your role in this is unknown. Soon we will...”

“Your Grace!” a messenger squeaked. He was a boy, perhaps Bran’s age or the age Bran would have been by now. “A herald from Ramsay Bolton. He sends for parley.”

Jon nodded, “Tell him we will meet.” Roose Bolton had met them for parley in the morning, but it had only been a formality. Neither side could offer the other any ground. Jon did not have the measure of Ramsay, but he hoped this parley would be much the same.

He took Mors, Mance, Val, Wull, and half a dozen others with him to meet the Boltons. Jon could name half the men that rode out to meet them. Theomore matched Lady Cerwyn’s description, tall and handsome with strong features. Corre was a thin, short man in a dull grey plate, and Barbrey Dustin was the stately woman who rode ahead of him. And last of the groups was Ramsay Bolton on his great red stallion. Any man could look lordly on the back of a horse, but not Ramsay. He was tall and powerfully built, but his shoulders sloped like one of the giants and his face was fat and fleshy and too wide.

“So you’ve come to treat with us, Bastard,” He called before they had even stopped. His voice was high, and painful to hear. “You’ve come to offer me my father’s head?”

No, I’ve come to take yours, Jon thought. “Winterfell is ours. The Dreadfort is ours. The food stores and the land and the armies are ours. You have nothing except the worthless name of a dying house of oathbreakers, and winter is coming. The blood of my brother demands that I kill your father, but make peace with me and I will not kill him, or you, and any of yours. You and your father can accept my mercy and go to the-”

Ramsay spat. “Mercy.” He said the word like a curse. “I’ll show you mercy. I’ll strip you, strip you naked and strip the skin from your back and wear it like a cloak. But I’ll keep you alive, oh yes. I’ll give you a chance to say sorry, bastard. I’ll give you a lot of chances.”

“Winter is coming,” Jon repeated. “The North cannot survive at war.”

“You pulled a good trick on my father. You surprised the men, made them forget themselves. You can’t take us in the field though, and you know that as well as we do.”

“You are dooming your father to death,” Jon stated, his eyebrows raised.

“Why should I care? If you kill him, then I am Lord Bolton. The Lannisters never loved him and they will never love me, but they hate you, Bastard. That is why these all follow me. They know that they will never have peace until you Starks are dead and gone.”

“One enemy at a time,” Jon stated. “You, your father, the ironborn… I will treat with you all in turn. If the Lannisters wish to attempt an invasion of the North in Winter they are welcome to try. I think they will find that their soldiers have had their fill of war.”

“You’ll be nothing but a king of ruins, Bastard.”

“It was not the Starks who burned Winterfell.”

“No,” Ramsay replied. “And it wasn’t me either. I brought you a present. Come forward, Reek.”

A pale man with deep dark circles under his eyes trotted slowly forward, his expression dark and terrified. Jon blinked, unsure as to who this Reek was supposed to be… and then he saw it. The remnants of what had been Theon Greyjoy. He had been handsome once, now he was a walking corpse.

“Do you recognize him?” Ramsay asked. “Do you know who this is? The man who killed your brothers? How you must hate him. How you must long to cut him to pieces. I think I shall offer you a trade. I will give you my Reek, my finest work, and you will give me Jonnelle Cerwyn. My last wife died, you see, and I need a new one.” 

Cold rage settled in Jon’s guts. Bran and Rickon, slaughtered on the highway like rabbits by a man who should have been like a brother to them. He thought of Theon’s knowing smirk, of his casual cruelty and vanity, and he felt the hunger. The hunger for Theon’s death. He would enjoy that. He would enjoy cutting him open and feeding him to crows.

But no. He closed his eyes and found his center again before he opened them. “Theon Greyjoy killed my brothers,” he said simply. “I’ve never seen this Reek before in my life.” Theon’s eyes widened, and Ramsay’s teeth flashed as though he meant to bite Jon’s throat out.

“If you have nothing more to offer than a mummer’s show,” Jon replied, “Then I and my lords will take our leave.”

And with that, he turned his horse away and rode back toward camp.

“You’ll see us on the field of battle!” Ramsay called after him, “You’ll see my mercy then, Bastard!”

No, Jon thought. I will never see you again.

Theomore Rakelin arrived before sunset to make an offer of peace, along with a box containing the head of Ramsay Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, its been a while! I've been traveling for work and pulling long days so I haven't been able to write as much as I would like, and I also have been using a much more thorough editing process with three betas and half a dozen alpha readers. I think it makes my writing a lot better but it also takes a lot of time. :/. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> This is a different take on HBO's battle of the bastards, using book characterizations as opposed to the shows. Jon is a frighteningly novice commander, but like Robb he's had very good training and knows what needs to be done. Ramsay is a brute with years of experience as a brigand, but little in the way of formal education. Both have been legitimized after the deaths of all their siblings, and both come face to face now. This sort of conflict is something I find very interesting, but I really felt that HBO never gave this episode the treatment it deserved.
> 
> Comment, you cravens!


	10. All Fled Before His Face

“The river is low,” Dacey said it half to break the silence.

The ancient ferryman eyed her with open fear. “Aye,” he replied, almost unwillingly, “It’s been mighty dry for autumn. Unnatural.”

“I suppose you’ve seen all sorts of weather.”

“I’ve been ferrying people over this river for longer than I care to remember,” the old man replied, rubbing his bearded chin with a leathery hand. “But I ain’t ever seen weather like this. Not with winter so close at hand. The gods are cursing the kingdom.” He closed his lips suddenly after the last statement and eyed her suspiciously again.

Dacey sighed. “Perhaps so. But it seems that war is punishment enough by itself without any assistance from the gods.”

The ferryman poled onward without replying, and Dacey troubled him no further. King Robb had tasked her men with foraging north of the river on which they had been encamped, and today had been successful, as such days went. They had only one more point to inspect, an inn on the shellroad that had supposedly been left untouched by the war. Untouched until now, in any case, she thought grimly.

She and her men made no pretense of offering the ferryman coin, and he made no protest. They had little enough coin to give him, and he had nothing to spend it on if he did. They rode on in silence, the sun getting lower in the sky overhead.

The rumored inn did exist, as it happened, but untouched it was not. The roof had been partly burned and the stone wall around the perimeter had been broken down in places. No army had passed here at any point in the war, but wolves and brigands were all too common in the Riverlands these days. Which was she, a wolf, or a brigand? It made little difference. Nothing of value had been left here. Was this relief or disappointment she felt?

“Nothing here,” her man stated flatly. “May as well return to the King.”

Dacey held up her hand for silence, her eyes searching the ruins one last time. “We aren’t leaving here,” she said quietly, drawing her ax. “Not until we find out who’s been weeding the garden.”

Her man nodded wordlessly and spurred his horse on, riding around with three of the others to approach the ruin from the other side. In all likelihood, it was only some wastrel living here to get out of the sun, but it might just as easily be a Lannister scout. Dacey had lost too many men to take even something as small as a weeded garden lightly.

She locked eyes with her man who had circled around and nodded. As one, all her riders sprang into action, riding through the broken gate of the inn, weapons out and ready for trouble. She jumped off her horse, mace in hand, and kicked the door in.

A dagger flashed out at her face but she swept it aside contemptuously with her shield before slamming the robed man into the wall. The man fought like a wildcat, pummeling her with his fists and howling with rage.

“Give it a rest,” she stated flatly, “I’m in mail, you’re only hurting yourself.”

The man paused gasping for breath. He was a not-unhandsome boy with dusty red hair and freckles. Gods help me, Dacey thought. The boy with the dagger was younger than King Robb.

“We found the innkeeper!” One of her men called from behind, “His wife too!” The once-fat innkeeper was pushed into the room, his hands over his head. His wife shuffled behind him, carrying her skirts and glancing around the room with open fear.

“We yield!” the innkeeper cried desperately, “That man is no one that belongs to us! He’s nothing to us! We yield, we yield!”

Dacey turned back to the man who she still held pinned against the wall. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Harry Turtles,” the boy spat, saying his name like it was a curse. “What’s it to you?”

“You shoved a dagger in my face. That makes you interesting. You have a grudge against King Stark?” She already doubted the boy was a Lannister scout. There were boys this green in King Robb’s army, but Kevan’s host from the crownlands had been less desperate for recruits. But the boy might have lost family to a foraging party, and set off on a quest of vengeance. Gods knew there was enough hunger for vengeance in the Riverlands these days.

Harry’s face wrinkled in confusion. “You’re Stark’s?”

“I have been sworn to him body and soul for nigh on two years,” Dacey said with a sigh.

“But your banners… I memorized all them banners, I did, and I never seen yours before! There weren’t no bear in the book!”

Dacey wanted to find her bedroll and sleep for a week. “House Mormont? Of Bear Island? Our house words are Here We Stand?” The boy’s face showed no recognition. Why would it? Bear Island was a minor holding a thousand miles distant. They did not even have a proper keep. A man who attended to the lore of Valyrian steel might remember the blade Longclaw, but this boy did not have the look of such a person. She sighed again. “What are you doing out here?”

“I come from Riverrun, m’lady,” the boy said, his color returning, “I’ve an important message for King Robb the Returned!”

“It cannot be that important,” one of her men muttered glumly, “else they would have sent someone more experienced.”

“I had this from the castellan himself!” The boy hissed, “I-”

“Important or not,” Dacey said, interrupting the argument before it could begin. “If this boy speaks true we can ill afford to let a message go astray.” News, any news, was hard bought in these times. The hard truth of campaigning was that an army in the field could send ravens, but could never receive them directly, meaning that any messages had to be carried on foot from a nearby castle. With half the castles in the Riverlands burnt or under siege, information had become a precious thing indeed. Besides that, this boy was lost and might be killed if left alone.

She released her grip and nodded to him. “I can take you to King Stark, as long as you don’t keep on with shoving daggers in my face.”

“Er, Lady Mormont?” one of her men asked. It was Kyle, an old drinking buddy of Jorah’s. “Should we not search for any foodstuffs these innkeepers have? King’s orders, you know.”

Dacey drew in a deep breath. Robb’s orders had been to clear the countryside of any forage, no matter how small, in hopes of stalling the Lannister advance. This inn had been ransacked at least twice before. Half the tables were broken, the walls had holes in them, and a small pile of broken clay shards was piled in the corner. The innkeeper and his wife were both prostrated on the floor in front of them, weeping. How much could these two have? It did not matter in principle. Any food they left would feed Lannister bellies when they left this place behind.

“We don’t have the time for this,” Dacey stated. “Sunset draws near and this boy’s message is more important.”

The threat of the coming dark silenced the men. She did not have to mention why they wanted to be back in the camp before sunset. They all knew. The silence persisted most of the way home, as it often did on the last stretch of road before coming into camp. Their quietness seemed to unnerve Harry the boy, and he kept looking over his shoulder as though he expected an ambush.

“We’re just a few miles from camp,” Dacey stated. “There’s no risk of attack.”

Harry swallowed nervously, “It’s only, you know, I’ve been with troops before, with knights and men at arms and archers and all sorts… and usually there’s more talking, more laughing. You bear folk seem like an awfully dour lot, and I can’t make out why.” He coughed, “Er, beggin your pardon milady.”

“That’s why,” Dacey said, pointing the haft of her ax up ahead. The last two miles before the camp was lined with skeletons and crows. “Every Lannister man we take, we gut,” Dacey explained flatly. “Then we spread their entrails about the trees here. If we’re feeling generous, we kill them first.” It had been a few weeks since they had last fought the Lannisters in earnest, so these corpses were old. That was better and worse. The crows had cleaned off the greater part of the flesh and the stench was not so bad anymore, but there were still flies everywhere, and what remained of the men… no, she did not want to think more of it.

Harry’s face seemed to shrink in on itself. “Why?”

“The Lannisters violated guest right. Or their catspaws did. It makes no difference. They are accursed of the gods, and they have no right to a home in the earth, so we hang them in the trees where they’re sport for crows.”

Harry shivered. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

“The Lannisters like it even less, whenever we give ground to them.”

Just a few miles more, she reminded herself. At least they were not riding through here in the dark. In the day the bodies brought crows, but in the night there were wolves, and… she did not want to say ghosts. She was too old for grumpkins and snarks. Or maybe the grumpkins and snarks had been real all along and it was only foolish, bullheaded young men and women who did not believe in terrors in the dark?.

Take command of yourself Dacey, she thought. There are enough terrors in the sunlight.

Passing into the camp from the red forest always felt like waking up from a nightmare. The oppressive silence of the trees and the skeletons gave way suddenly to gaiety and frivolity. Food had not been scarce in the camp since they had passed through Fairmarket and come into the parts of the Riverlands that had suffered less. The parts that had hitherto suffered less, she reminded herself. Though the Stark camp might be full of gaiety, the countryside did not share their joy.

“Where is the King?” she asked a passing servant.

“He is taking his supper milady, with all the lords.”

Dacey sighed. “How important is this message of yours, Harry?”

“Utmost importance, milady. I was told as to trust it to no one but the King himself.”

Dacey saw one of her men restrain a laugh. This plain country boy no doubt saw his message as the most important thing that had ever happened to anyone, but to disrupt the king while at his feast… No, she had to take this boy at his word. If he had lied to increase his stature, then let that be on his head.

The High Table of the King sat on a low hill above the greater part of the camp, surrounded by dingy overused pavilions and a great fire over which they had spit a boar. The table was littered with food. Skewers of charred meat and onions still hot from the fire, rounds of pale yellow cheese, and roasted apples washed down with beer and spiced wine from Seagard. Supplies had not been so tight since Fairmarket, and the men were happy to be amidst the feasting after a hard day’s travel, but Dacey could not help wincing at the smell of the roast pork. Man and pig smelled too alike when they burned for her taste. She for one would not place her high table so near the smell of roast pork. But then, she was not the king.

The King, for his part, sat at the highest seat of the table surrounded by his most trusted generals. Bracken and Piper and Mallister. Not for the first time, Dacey wondered why Queen Jeyne had not been summoned from Riverrun. Did the king wish to spare his wife the horrors of war? Did Dacey resent her for that?

She had scarcely come into view when the King turned and nodded to her, beckoning her to come near. King Stark wore a crown of iron set with jet, his whitened hair curling over it like smoke spilling from a brazier. With effort, she forced herself to meet his gaze. The King had the complexion of a drowned corpse, reddened and soaked with blood from the inside, but it was his eyes that terrified her the most. Too blue, too alive and cold, pits of ice amidst the raging wildfire of his face.

“Speak,” he ordered, his voice dry and without inflection.

“My deepest apologies for the interruption, my King,” she answered, bowing to the King with reverence, “but we came across a messenger from Riverrun who had news that he would bring to your ears only.” She nodded to Harry, who stepped forward, bowing slightly and holding his cap in his hands, as though he suddenly doubted his only importance.

“Your Grace, I...” He swallowed, “Your Grace, I bear news from Riverrun. Or rather from Maidenpool. A man loyal to your Grace, in Maidenpool, he sent a raven to us at Riverrun. That is to say, your Grace, we received word that Tarly has left Maidenpool and marches west.”

Dacey grimaced. This was not good news. Until now they had only survived because Tywin and Mace had been unwilling to commit their full strength. She did not understand their reasons, nor could she, but if Tarly was marching East with his fifteen thousands...

“Tarly has left Maidenpool?” Piper said, leaning in nervously. “Then no doubt our friend Ser Kevan means to join with him. Your Grace, we can barely face the few thousands Ser Kevan has gathered. If he joins with Tarly, we will-”

The King said nothing but took a long drink of wine. “Have courage, Piper,” He said after a moment. “We always planned to defeat Ser Kevan’s force in the field. All that this news means is that we will have to do so a week earlier than planned.”

“But Kevan will have already left!” Piper insisted, “By the time we pick up camp and march to him he will be across the Blue Fork and well out of our grasp.”

Robb’s face betrayed no sign of concern. “Kevan will not have left. He will not even know of this yet.” He nodded at Dacey. “Where is the nearest Lannister garrison?”

“Darry,” Dacey supplied, understanding what her king meant to say, “The nearest Lannister garrison is at Darry. They’re sieging half a dozen castles between here and there, but the nearest ravenry they control is at Darry. The ravens don’t fly to Fairmarket and Raventree Hall is under siege, so they’ll have to send a horseman…. They’ll not get the news for another week at least.”

“And when they do, they’ll move to unite with Tarly,” Robb said, finishing her thought. “But they have no bridge to cross, not after we burned the bridge in Fairmarket, and they cannot go the way they came if they wish to make haste. No, they will need to build ferries for themselves, and that will take weeks.”

Fairmarket. Dacey shivered despite the heat. Fairmarket had become a dark name to her, a name that she could not hear without pain. The city had passed through the war mostly untouched. Tywin had left them unmarred so that they would sell grain to his army, and Robb had been unwilling to harm a city under the Blackwood’s’ protection when they first came south. But now the war had shifted, and Robb sought to leave nothing in the countryside for Ser Kevan to eat. The sack of Fairmarket had been simple butchery, there was no other term for it, but better for the city to lie in ruins than for its riches to pass into Lannister hands.

“...we will need a force to ride hard and catch them on the northern bank outside Fairmarket,” Robb continued, his dark-red lips twisting in a smile. “Who will lead my army to victory?” Dacey blinked, recovering herself. So Robb meant to hold the Northern shore against Ser Kevan. She could see wisdom in that. Crossings were tricky things at the best of times, but if they could set a force to contest the Lannisters as they crossed…

She opened her mouth to volunteer, but the Smalljon’s voice rang first. “I will lead them, my King! Allow me this chance to die in your name!”

“And me, and me!” Piper cried, “I will lead a company alongside Lord Umber! I will do it!”

Cheers went all round, and Dacey hid her disappointment. This was better, she reminded herself. It was better to be at the side of the King. Better to be able to protect him, keep him safe from harm. The image of the King falling into the river flashed through her mind’s eye and she released a breath.

The Smalljon joined her as she walked from the dais, a tight smile etched into his features. “Gods, it feels good to be winning again.”

“We haven’t won yet,” Dacey reminded him.

“We have faced worse enemies than Kevan Lanister’s Crownslanders. I should give us even odds of carrying the day if I only considered numbers and training and equipment. But the hearts of the enemy are weak. They are Crownslander men, forced into this war at knifepoint, men who have heard tales of the Young Wolf for years, who have lived in fear of him for years. Now that he is returned, they will see it as a sign from the gods, a sign of their doom. You have heard the words the men of the Brotherhood say, how they call him the Red King, or King Robb the Returned, or...”

“I have heard such titles,” Dacey sighed. For her part, she wished the Brotherhood would stop calling him the Red King. That reminded her too much of Bolton. But she knew that the Smalljon was right. You could not win a battle with bravery alone, but you could never win without it. Perhaps the gods did favor them now, too, though that scarce seemed possible, with all the butchery they had done. But who knew what the gods might find to be pleasing?

The Smalljon frowned. “Something is bothering you.”

“We don’t have the Blackfish.”

The Smalljon rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “You think that without his leadership of the scouts, we might never have managed Oxcross or the Whispering Woods.”

“The Young Wolf never lost, but he did not win because of bravery alone. Ser Brynden was as much a part of those victories as anyone.” She paused, “And I still remember what happened at Harrenhal when he did not command the scouts.”

“The Brotherhood should be able to do better than that, at least,” the Smalljon said. “They know these lands better than anyone.”

"The Brotherhood are little better than brigands," Dacey replied, but without venom. After all, she was not much more than a brigand herself.

Her greatest fear she did not dare to say aloud. Most of all she feared victory. She feared that they would win battle after battle after battle and never find peace, never find rest. What did victory on the battlefield mean if the enemy advanced on every other front? Not for the first time she wondered if the ironborn had made conquest of Bear Island yet. It had been a month since they had last heard from the North, and any number of things could have happened. She knew that the Smalljon had told the King of Jon Snow, but she did not know what the thoughts of the King were on the matter. They had sent a raven north to Last Hearth, but it would not arrive for weeks. Would they return home to a North already set to rights, or would Jon fight to keep his brother out? She did not think it so unlikely.

The rest of the army did not seem to share her dark thoughts, and the week passed swiftly by without issue. For them, their symbol of victory had miraculously returned, and they saw it as a sign of the gods’ favor. Who was she to tell them they were wrong? The King is dead, long live the king. The Smalljon left with a thousand men of the North to circle around and fortify the northern shore of the Blue Fork, and Dacey missed him sorely. She had come to depend on the big man’s presence, as constant and thick as a castle wall. But he was not dead, she reminded herself, not yet. The host had turned into a bustle of activity, with wagons carving ruts in the soft Riverlander clay and long days full of swift marching.

The King himself led the horse, and Dacey never left his side. She knew all the others of the guard by their first names now. The guards of the king had been close-knit before the wedding, before the losses, but now they were practically blood, family in all but name. Of all of them, the only mystery was Thoros of Myr, the fat red priest who had pulled the King from the waters. He did not match the description Jorah and Lynesse had made of him ten years ago. Loud and vibrant, they had called him, but the Thoros that rode with them now was dull and pensive, full of regret and caution.

But they had all changed in the last few years, the King more than most. He had become quieter, and he became quieter still when they were not at feast or in battle. He would ride for hours in total silence, glassy blue eyes on the horizon as though he would will it to come nearer. Dacey reminded herself that she was not to judge her king, that King Robb’s condescension to her and the others had never been something she had any right to expect.

“Your Grace,” she said when the silence could be born no longer. “After this battle is won, there will be a time for respite. You could send for the Queen.”

He turned and regarded her with a raised eyebrow, as though he had never heard of any Queen before, as though he thought she was speaking of Queen Cersei.

Dacey almost blushed despite herself. Had she been impertinent? She knew she had been. It was not the place of a sworn sword to remind their king of something so trivial. “My apologies, Your Grace, I had assumed. I had assumed that… well, that you might have had concern bringing Queen Jeyne to camp, in the company of so many men of war, but I thought that I might offer myself as a guard to...” Dacey closed her mouth. She had an ax for a tongue, and her apology had been worse than the first offense. To suggest herself for such a role! It was too much. She bowed her head, wilting under the weight of his blazing blue eyes. “I beg your forgiveness for my impertinence,” she finished numbly.

The King said nothing in reply, and Dacey spent the rest of the ride deep in mortification. It had been such a simple thing, such an obvious thing to her. Of course the young King would want his bride. Of course the king would want to get an heir on her. The affection they had born for each other had been clear from the Crag onward, and neither had shown any shyness or lack of joy about fulfilling their marital duties. That he would want her, that he would want someone to guard her, and that Dacey would be best suited to the role… This had been something she had never thought to question.

Do not assume you know the King, she thought to herself. The King had died, and though the new King wore the same face, he was not the same boy, not the same man. Dacey steeled herself and rode straight. The King had not reprimanded her, not openly. What could that mean but that her apology had been accepted? She would make use of this chance to prove herself.

The vanguard came upon a band of Lannister foragers the next day and ran them down before any could away. Dacey took one of them alive for questioning and determined that Ser Kevan’s host remained unaware of their approach. The King nodded at that, and Dacey had smiled at his acknowledgment. She would make herself useful to this new king.

The day after, the ruins of Fairmarket came into view, and Dacey was surprised to find that it looked even worse than they had left it. When they had first come to Fairmarket, the buildings had been whitewashed and clean, but the army had left them marred by soot and blood. Now, whole buildings had been taken to pieces, no doubt to be used for building the boats the Lannisters needed to cross. In places, the Lannisters had pulled timber from the structures, no doubt to build the boats they would need to cross the river. Or perhaps they had used the wood to erect the fortifications that stood around the city: Ditches and mounds of earth with wooden stakes forming a line at the top.

“I do not much like the looks of those walls,” Lord Bracken stated, and Dacey had to agree. “These Lannisters haven’t been idle.”

The King seemed hardly to notice them. “A wall or a mound of earth is only as good as the men that hold it,” he replied coolly “They are hungry, divided on either side of a river, and ripe with fear.” Then he smiled. “All we have to do is bring in the harvest.”

Defenders were scrambling to take position atop the wall even as the army of the North drew near. Dacey could read terror in their movements. Would that spell victory or defeat? A cornered rat was the most dangerous, after all.

Without a word, the King spurred his horse forward and Dacey and the guard hurried to follow him. For a brief moment, she wondered if he meant to assault the battlements alone but he stopped short of the fortifications, just out of bowshot.

“Every rumor you have heard is true!” the King shouted, “You heard first that I died, and then that I lived, and I have done both. I have returned now, and I bring wrath and ruin to all you who wear the red of House Lannister. I will offer mercy to you only this once. Lay down your arms! Come to me! I will spare you! But know that if you throw your lot in with oathbreakers and guestslayers, I will feed your entrails to the birds and water the fields with your blood! You have one hour, and then I will have my vengeance! By my blade, I swear it!”

Without a word more he turned on his horse and rode back. Few would heed his call, she knew. The Lannisters still had the numbers and soldiers to fight them, especially with such a well-fortified position. Some would wish to desert, and if they besieged the town perhaps some would. But desertion was a dangerous business and the King had not given any man time to leave.

“You never intended to show mercy to anyone,” she said, the words spilling out of her mouth before she realized her impertinence.

The King’s smile from earlier had not faded. A week ago she might have lamented that the king never smiled as he once had, but seeing his dark red lips twist as they did now filled her nothing but dread.

“They are all Lannister dogs,” he stated. “They deserve death, but first I will have them know fear.”

Idly, Dacey wondered if any of the town’s original inhabitants had returned after the initial sack. Some would have, and would be acting now as shopkeepers and washerwomen and whores for the Lannister army. When the King’s army got into the city, there would be little difference between them, she supposed. She emptied her mind of such thoughts. They would be no use in the coming battle.

An hour was how long it took for the army to collect itself in good order. They were a wall of mud and blood and rust, a mongrel force that had been growing since the return of the King, bolstered by deserters and survivors of the Red Wedding who had finally found their way to the host. They had armor, they had steel, they had uniforms, but every piece of their equipage bore the signs of hard campaigning When they had marched south, it had been in neat blocks of blue and green and red, each colored according to the House they served, but now such lines had been blurred and muddied until the entirety of the King’s army seemed almost to be one massive brown line of men in dirtied motley. These men were not beholden to Umber or Mormont or Bracken or Cerwyn, but only to Stark, only to Robb the Returned.

The King himself hung back from the frontlines, showing no hint of his true intention, even as arrows from the fortifications began to fall amongst his formation. The fighting began in earnest in the front. The enemy lines held for the moment, but Dacey could see that the King’s prediction had come true. The army of the North surrounded them and pushed in on all sides. The left flank had already been pushed back a step, and Dacey wondered if the King would commit them there in hopes of breaking the enemy outright, but still, the King waited.

At last, as though some invisible signal had been read, the King nodded and trotted slowly forward. Dacey and the guard followed uneasily, uncertain of his purpose.

“The Lannister horse is finally committed,” the King said, drawing his sword. “We will catch them out and push them into their own moat. Thoros.”

The Red Priest rode forward, reaching into his saddlebags and producing a small earthen pot. “Careful, your Grace, careful. The Substance, it...”

Robb took the vessel from the Red Priest and dashed it upon his naked steel. Almost instantly the blade exploded into green-white flames and Dacey had to strain to keep her horse from bucking. 

The King smiled, and raised his flaming blade alight, his dark smile wider than ever. “This is our hour,” he said, “Let us see if these Lannister dogs know death when they see it.”

The Northern horse surged forward as one, the King forming the tip of the spear, his flaming sword held aloft. It was a wild, reckless charge, where Dacey’s horse had to strain to keep up. The Lannister horse was near now, she could make out their faces. The Mountain! The Mountain was leading them, as big and as strong as a house. She spurred her horse harder, determined to outpace the King, determined to keep him alive, but her horse could go no faster, and then they were almost upon the Lannisters and there was no time.

The crash of the cavalry charge shook Dacey so hard she could feel it in her teeth. She broke lances with her opponent, a knight of Marbrand, and her whole body twisted and screamed in exertion, but in the end, he fell into the dirt and she did not. Dacey yelled and spat and cursed as she drew her mace and tried to bring order out of the chaos. They were winning, they were winning, but where was the King? She could not see him, but then, she could see little enough through the narrow the eyeslits of her helmet. Then a man was upon her and she had to fight to save her life. He slammed her shield with a hammer and she nearly fell. He hit her again and she could not block. His hammer rose a third time, and... She was saved. Thoros of Myr speared her opponent through with his long-bladed estoc, forcing him to spill his blood into the dirt.

But where was her King? Where was Robb? She saw him just as he thrust his burning blade into the joint under the Mountain’s arm. The big man roared in rage and swiped down with a greatsword, but the King was faster. He twisted in his saddle and cut deep into the horse’s flank. The Mountain fell, and fell hard, but he rose again with a scream of rage...

….Only for the King’s destrier to kick him in his face and bear him to the earth again. The big man lay there on the ground, wheezing, somehow still alive for the moment, but it did not last. The King twisted his reins and forced his horse to shift its footing, right on top of the Mountain’s chest. The Mountain stuttered and gasped, weakly grabbing at the horse’s leg with his one good arm, but soon his coughs of air turned to coughs of blood and he lay still entirely. Dacey did not attempt to hide her smile.

Horns called. Two short blasts then one long. The agreed-upon signal for victory over the enemy horse! Dacey shook her head in disbelief. The Northern horse had been their greatest remaining asset after the Red Wedding, but the months since had seen them take grievous losses. How had they prevailed yet again? Was this the favor of the gods? No, Dacey thought. It was the sword, it had to be. The burning sword of the king. It still burned even now, held aloft by his Grace as he rode slowly forward. Wildfire. She had heard of the substance before, from Lynesse and her maester, but she had never imagined it would be so… so painfully bright, so terrifying and untamable.

“Your Grace,” she said with some uncertainty. “That flame upon your blade, is it… safe?” She would not care to hold such a firebrand herself. The heat alone made her fear for her King.

“No,” her King said, “It is not safe, not for our enemies, and not for me. But I do not fear the flames. Why should I?”

Dacey was grateful that the needs of battle prevented further conversation between them. The Lannister infantry had been driven back from their fortifications and the cavalry was needed for running the enemy down where they could. Simple slaughter it was, but for Dacey, such things had become routine. Some made for the half-built ferries on the river’s edge… only to be greeted by the Smalljon and his men, who loosed arrows into them even before they fully landed on the far side of the river. By the time the slaughter was done the sun was sinking low into the west and Dacey felt tired as she had not felt since the King had returned.

But there was still one more matter to which the King must attend. And where the King went, Dacey went also.

“Ser Kevan is up in there, your Grace,” the fresh-faced archer said with a grimace, “I’ve seen him, sure as I’ve got two eyes in my head. Would have shot him dead then and there but I supposed that you would like to pass judgment personally, so I set guards around the place and I’ve not let anyone come or leave.”

Dacey made a note to remember the archer’s face. He was one of the Brotherhood, the irregular army that claimed loyalty to the dead king Robert until they and Thoros had brought the King back and agreed to follow him. Anguy, that had been his name. He had commanded the scouts, and in truth, Dacey supposed they owed the greater part of their victory to him and the other men of the Brotherhood.

And now he had cornered Ser Kevan himself. The building had once been the mayor’s house, a wide old stone building built for comfort rather than defense, but the Lannisters had made it into a fortress. The windows had been filled with bricks and the garden had been turned into a moat. It seemed as fine a place as any to make a last stand.

“Burn it,” the King ordered. “The walls may be stone, but the roof is thatch.”

Dacey’s mouth opened. She would gladly watch Kevan Lannister burn, but there were other men in the castle, men who could be ransomed or exchanged for hostages. There were women and children there only as servants, who may have been little better than prisoners.

But it was not the place of a sword to challenge its owner, so she ordered the men to gather bundles of dried sticks and fill the moats with them. Ser Kevan appeared at an upper window and attempted to speak, but he retreated quickly after the King had Anguy loose an arrow into his arm. Dacey dropped the firebrand into the piles herself and stepped back to watch the flames climb up to lick the edge of the roof, but when the screaming started, she found that she could not help but look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a long time coming and I thank you all for your patience. My workflow has been heavily interrupted by a series of 12 hour days and fire emblem: 3 houses, but hopefully things will be a bit quicker from here on out


	11. The Haunted

“Wine,” Sandor croaked. “Wine,”

Arya held the skin to his parched lips and he received it clumsily, choking and coughing and spilling wine all across his face and down onto his pillow.

“M’thanks,” he said gruffly, settling down more fully into his furs. The cold mountain mists of the Vale had settled into his lungs, and his condition had only worsened as they rode back down toward the Riverlands. He still rose and walked about the camp during the day, cursing and coughing and making everyone steer clear of him. He still would ride on Stranger with the army of the Vale. But when he got back to the tent he collapsed and became as helpless as a babe. Arya thought herself a poor nursemaid, but she did as best she could. She cleaned his furs and took his clothes to the washerwomen and brought him food and wine.

He did not need wine and food, though, not half so much as he needed medicine.

“I’m going to go to Lord Baelish,” she stated firmly. “He’ll get the maester to tend to you.”

“Fuck,” Sandor said, his head back on his pillow and his eyes closed. “I’ll die of your nagging before I die of this damned cold. Leave me to suffer in peace, we can’t have that fucker knowing how sick I am. I’ve survived worse than this.”

Arya did not say anything in reply. She was too busy thinking of an old man back in Winterfell who had been sick for so long and had kept saying that he felt better with each day that passed, even as his body wasted away. It seemed such a small thing, and so long ago, but that had been the first time she had known death. Not everyone died with a spear through their belly.

“I’m going to Lord Baelish,” she repeated, but she did not mean it. Maybe it was just that Sandor had scared her, or maybe something really was wrong with him, but she could not let him know the truth. She could not let him know that she was anything other than Arri the servant.

“Then fuck off and die,” the Hound growled, only to break apart into a fit of rasping coughs. He fell asleep before long, and then the real nightmare began. One moment he would be wrestling with some invisible giant, cursing and coughing and fighting, and the next he would be curled up in a great ball, weeping openly and calling out names Arya had never heard before.

Arya fled. She needed to be away from the warmth of the tent, away from the sickness and the dying. She had too many thoughts buzzing in her head, thoughts that she could not voice aloud lest someone hear her. Why should she care if the Hound died? He was a killer and a brute and he deserved whatever happened to him. It would be simple mercy to cut his throat, but then she had no cause to give him mercy, either. Why should she not go to Baelish? Why should she take the Hound at his word?

Most of all though, she had thoughts about Sansa. Her sister was here, alive. Her hair had been dyed brown and her dresses were all different and she had gotten so tall but still Arya would know her anywhere. What was she doing here? Was she trusting Lord Baelish? Was he protecting her, or was she some prisoner? Should Arya steal her away in the night, like Bael the Bard, or should she reveal herself to Baelish and live happy and safe and secure with her older sister?

She had crossed the Riverlands three times chasing after her family, but now that she had found her sister, her only sister, her only living family other than Jon… she felt only fear. Fear that Sansa would die or turn into vapor if they spoke. Fear that her older sister would have turned into a stranger. She and Sansa had not parted on good terms, all those months ago in that other world. Would she even welcome her now? Or would she spit at Arya and shut her out entirely?

She had been too warm and too full of thoughts for too long. She needed cold, and she knew where to get it. A mile out of camp there a stream flowed down out of the mountains; she had seen it herself when they had ridden down the mountain earlier in the day. She would be alone there, at least, away from the Valemen and the Hound and Lord Baelish. The stream was too small for even the washerwomen to bother with, but Arya was small too, and there was enough water for her. Enough to splash her face and scrub her hands with a rag until they hurt, until they were bright pink and her bones ached. She needed to be clean, needed to feel pain, and remind herself she was alive.

She had been on the run for too long. That was the problem, Arya decided. She had been a fox chased through the woods by hounds, running so long that she could not remember how to do anything else. But Arya was a wolf, not a fox, and she should act like it. The Wolf in her dreams did not run. Grey Wind did not run. Why should she sit in the Hound’s tent and wring her hands with fear? She had eyes, she had ears. She would decide for herself if Sansa was safe or in danger. She would decide for herself if Baelish was a friend or foe. Seeing. The True Seeing. That had been the most important skill Syrio Forel had taught her, but she had almost forgotten it.

She dried herself and went back into camp. Lord Baelish’s army always arranged itself in the same way, no matter where they were encamped, so she had no difficulty in finding what she sought: a small line of wagons overflowing with boxes and barrels and cages full of screaming ravens. But none of them screamed as loud as the man who oversaw the lot, a short, crooked man with a pinched up face and a mouth full of sourleaf.

"Maester,” Arya said, stepping in front of him and forcing him to pay attention to her. “I’m Arri, squire to Ser Clegane, the Hound, and my master is sick and we need your strongest medicine.”

The maester turned a baleful eye on her, his lip curling in disgust. "My medicine is too expensive for an urchin like you."

Arya took a deep breath to calm herself. This was not Luwin and she was not Arya. This man was a very important sort of person in the camp and she had to be respectful to him. "Maester,” she repeated, “Ser Clegane is sick and if we’re going into battle Lord Baelish will want him healthy."

"You can't afford my medicine. Go to some apothecary who will sell you cheaper tonics."

“Well, I will let Lord Baelish know that you said that,” Arya spat back. “I’ll let him know why the Hound can’t go into battle.”

The Maester laughed. “My my my. A knight makes you polish a helmet and calls you a squire and you think you’re nobility. I have things to attend to, urchin, and you’ll leave me be or I’ll have one of my assistants see you off.”

He turned to leave but she went after him, “I need a bottle of lysenthum oil,” she called out, “to mix in his soup and keep the coughing down, so he can get some food without losing it all to vomit. It should be in a little blue bottle with...”

The Maester turned back suddenly, obviously surprised. “You know your way around a Maester’s bench well, little urchin.”

Arya bit the inside of her cheek. Back when she had been Arya Underfoot in Winterfell she had followed every servant around as they did their chores, and she knew how to do half the jobs in a household if it came down to it. Mayhap the Maester would take her more seriously if he saw Arri as more than a stupid peasant boy. She drew in a breath

“I am no urchin. I was raised in a castle,” she said simply. “Acorn Hall. I used to run errands for the Lady and her family and I know all sorts of things.”

“You know your letters?”

Arya nodded. “Numbers too, and the names of all the medicines. I know all the right ways to talk and bow and scrape and curtsey and whatever else you like, and I can carry a mug full of ale from here to Lord Baelish himself without spilling a drop. I’m a champion cat-catcher and I know the names of all the stars and constellations.”

The Maester sighed. “I really do not have the time to be dealing with every knight who’s caught a cold.”

“The Hound isn’t just any knight, Maester.” The Hound was no knight at all, but Arya did not say that. “It won’t be any burden for you, either. I can care for him myself if you just give me the medicine. I’ll even run chores for you. Carry packages for you, mix potions, whatever you need.”

The maester frowned. “I wouldn’t call myself worthy of my chain if I let some random brat mix my medicines for me. But on the other hand...” he grimaced, and reached into his cart for a small bottle of thick blue liquid, with a wax seal on the cap. “This is a sleeping draught for the Lady Lysa. Deliver it to her and have her take it with her wine. Report back to me, and I will have your lysenthum well and ready.”

Arya smiled and reached for the draught. This was exactly what she had wanted. Before her fingers could close on the bottle, however, the maester pulled his hand back and gave her a stern glare. “Don’t even think of stealing this potion, urchin. My medicine is too expensive for all but the richest folk, and you’re one of the poorest, castle-raised or no.”

“I swear it on my mother’s grave,” she said, her lips thin and hard. She did not know if they had given her mother a grave, but she doubted it. The Maester let her have the potion anyway and then she was off, darting between the tents, carts, horses, and men that made up Lord Baelish’s camp. This was what she had hoped for when she had gone for the Maester. The servants of a maester were invisible, running to and fro with packages and letters and aught else. If men knew that she ran errands for the Maester, they would let her go wherever she pleased, perhaps even to Sansa’s quarters.

There had never been any question as to where she would find Lady Lysa. Everyone knew that she almost never stirred from the great pavilions in the center of camp. The men had taken to calling it the ‘Castle of Silks,’ and they said that it had been one of Lord Jon’s last gifts to his Lady, a sign of the Old Falcon’s love and affection. Arya thought that a smaller tent would be more fitting for a couple that was in love.

“I’m squire Arri,” she announced to the guard outside the pavilion, producing the bottle and bowing graciously. “I’m here to bring Lady Lysa’s sleeping draught.”

The guard grunted. “So he found a footpad to take over his least favorite task, did he? Well, come on then.”

Silken drapes and painted screens formed rooms and corridors within the huge pavilion. Arya looked left and right as the guard led her on, imagining that Sansa would cross their path any moment. Would Sansa shriek? Would she gasp? Would she not recognize Arya at all? Arya pulled up her collar to hide her face. She would remain Arri for now. Arri was safe and did not need to fear anything.

Arya suppressed a gasp as the drapes were pulled back to reveal the Lady Lysa. She lay on a heap of pillows, half-dressed with her hair spilling out behind like an auburn sunburst. The Lady Lysa was fat and sweaty and breathing heavily as though she was recovering from a great exertion and her eyes were fixed to the roof of the tent, staring intently at something in the shadows that was not there. All the while her lips quivered, opening slightly and closing, the only sound in the tent the whisperings of the maids who moved about the chamber.

Her mother’s sister. Her last hope. Arya felt some small part of herself curl up to die. Every time she hoped that she might come upon someone in power, someone who could help her, they died or were as good as dead.

“The Maester sent a courier to bring over the potion,” the guard said, and suddenly the Lady Lysa revived and sat up straight, her eyes coming into focus. The air had become heavy and hot in this room of quilts and pillows, and Arya felt sweat forming on her forehead.

“Yes, it is about time!” she snapped. “Do you know how long I have waited? Maester Coleman is always too long with my sleeping draught. Always too long with my fertility potion, always too long with everything. He fears me, I think, and well he might. Sometimes I dream about him burning, burning underneath a heart tree.” Her eyes settled on Arya and suddenly she felt as though Lysa were a dragon and she was Queen Rhaenyra from the stories, about to be burned and eaten alive.

But it was not recognition that dawned in Lady Lysa’s eyes, but fear. Her mouth went wide and her eyes filled with terror and she screamed, “No! No, what are you, and why are you here? Who did you kill with that bloodied knife?”

She rose from her pillows, whether to fight or flee Arya did not know, but her attendants restrained her and held her back. After a brief struggle, she collapsed back into her pillows, still screaming, “Away! Away! Take it away, I do not want to see it, I do not!”

Arya fled, ushered by three attendants and the guard who had first led her in. One of them took the parcel from her and then she was out, out of the Castle of Silks and away from the horrible creature that was her aunt. She crouched there a moment at the tent’s entrance, gasping for air. It seemed hardly possible, what had just occurred, as though she had stepped briefly into a nightmare. Would it be the same, when she finally spoke to Sansa?

A chuckle roused her from her thoughts. The guard at the front of the tent was laughing at her.

“What’s so funny?” She demanded, standing up straight and balling her fists.

“That Lady Lysa is,” the guard said, “You’ve no cause to feel ashamed for reacting the way you did to one of her fits. There’s a reason Maester Coleman doesn’t like to come up here to give the potion himself anymore. There’s a reason none of his assistants like to either.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

The guard shrugged. “Who knows? She was always a bit mad, you know. Would give the strangest orders sometimes, and if you dared to ask why she’d threaten you with awful punishments. There were those as said she heard voices, and I don’t doubt that could be the case. She got better briefly when Lord Protector Baelish arrived and they were wed but...” The guard shook his head. “It’s likely just the stress, what with her sister dying and all this terrible war. Women are gentler creatures, they’re the ones who suffer the most in such time.”

Arya snorted. She had suffered as much as anyone but she was not staring into the ceiling and seeing things. Her aunt Lysa was sick, she needed medicine stronger than a mere sleeping draught. But Arya already had one sick person to watch over, and Aunt Lysa had a personal Maester. She grimaced, her mind going back to the flash of dark blue that had filled the bottle. She could remember all sorts of potions Luwin had mixed for her family. She could remember milk of the poppy and sweetsleep and half a dozen other tonics, but she could remember nothing so dark and so inky. She shivered, and not because of the cold.

“Am I free to go?”

The guard laughed. “What, do you think milady will be requiring your services? No, you’re free to go wherever you came from. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen today, mind. The state of the Lady is no secret in the camp, but it’s no good for idle chatter about such things to spread.”

Arya sighed and shook her head as she walked away. She had come here seeking answers, but she had only found more questions. The Maester had already gone to bed when she returned, but a page gave her the oil she required and she took it back to her tent. The Hound was sleeping when she arrived, but he stirred soon and cursed at her to give him more wine. She gave him the wine and the medicine too. Just a few drops, every few hours, she reminded herself. Just as Luwin had treated her, back when she had been a child in Winterfell. Back before the world had stopped making sense.

With a sinking heart, she realized that the old man was dead now too, gone in the same attack that had killed Bran and Rickon. She felt numb to the realization, numb to everything, too tired to do anything more than crawl up next to the Hound and go to sleep.

Once again, she dreamt of Robb. They were drinking mulled wine by a campfire, with wolves all around them. Nymeria was there, huger than she had ever been when Arya had known her, and Grey Wind too, curled up behind her like a great cushion. Robb looked much as he had in her last dream, older and wearier, but still her brother. She thought they must have been talking for some time, but she could not remember what about.

“I don’t know what to do,” She admitted.

“That’s alright,” Robb replied. “No one ever does.”

She sipped the wine. She had drunk wine like this once, back in the summer, when her father had let her take a sip from his cup, but she had not remembered the taste of it until now. “Sansa is right there, but I feel so scared to go to her, like everything that’s happened up until now is a magic spell and it will all turn back to shit the moment I look too closely. I don’t know where this army is going or what Baelish means to do with my sister or what’s wrong with my aunt or...” She stopped to take a breath. She had not said so much to anyone in a long time, not at once. “I’m just tired,” she said finally. “I’m tired all the time, no matter how much I sleep. I sleep almost as much as the Hound but he’s sick and I’m not and it’s not fair.”

“You did a good thing today,” Robb allowed, “you kept your friend alive.”

She looked into her cup and frowned. Was that a good thing? The Hound was a killer and a villain. But these days he scared her less than her own aunt did. “I wish you weren’t dead. I wish you were really here and not just a dream. You would know how to keep Sansa safe, how to kill the Lannisters, and all the others who need killing.”

Robb did not reply immediately, but kept quiet, sipping his wine and scratching Nymeria’s ears, “I’d try to keep Sansa safe, that’s true,” he said, “But vengeance is something I haven’t cared about in a long time.”

Arya felt her face bunching up like crumpled up paper. “They killed father,” she said. “I saw them do it. He said the lies they wanted him to say and then they killed him anyway.” She glared at Robb over her cup. “They killed you too.”

“Only once,” Robb said with a smile, and then the dream faded and she could remember no more.

The next moment she was on the ground in the tent of the Hound again, wrapped up in his cloak and sore from the hardness of the ground. She felt herself sigh as she regained her wits. She was back in the real world again, the sounds of a waking camp all around her, the smell of earth thick in her nose. This was the world, the real world, and here Robb was dead. Thinking about it made her eyes hurt.

The Hound was already stirring, rolling about in his furs and muttering about some girl. Arya grimaced. Like as not it was some whore from the Street of Silks. She bounced to her feet and set about her chores, laying aside her weariness with activity. She fed Stranger, boiled some water on the coals of last night’s fire, and set about polishing Sandor’s armor. The big man rose partway through her chores, coughing up black phlegm and storming about the camp like a caged beast. She gave him some more of the wine with the medicine in it and he guzzled that down without a thought.

“The outriders say we’ll make it to Harrenhal by the end of the week,” said Arya.

“Maybe we will,” the Hound replied. “I never thought I’d be happy to be back in the Riverlands, but better the Riverlands than the fucking Mountains of Moon in fall.” He suddenly doubled over, racked by heavy, wet coughs that came from deep in his chest.

“What do you think Lord Baelish means to do?” Arya asked, after he had stood up again finally. “When we get to Harrenhal, I mean.”

“Who the fuck knows,” Sandor replied, “Who the fuck cares?”

“You know,” Arya said, testily. “You were in his tent nearly as much as Brune was, back before you started hiding from him. Before you were sick.” The Hound knew about Sansa already, he had to have. That was what Baelish had been referring to when they first met. The Hound had been keeping her in the dark and feeding her shit, and yet she found herself trusting him more than any of the others.

He raised his one good eyebrow and drank more of the wine. “You’re awfully chatty for a squire,” he growled. “Seems that you’ve forgotten your place.”

“I’ve cleaned piss out of your furs often enough that I’m owed something.”

A rasping cough escaped him and he spat to the side. “You think he tells his secret councils to a hired sword? Well, maybe he talks to Brune. I only know the sorts of things he says to the Lords who command his host.”

“And what does he say to them?”

“Depends who he’s talking to. Corbray only wants to hear of plunder, Royce only wants to hear of honor. Half the host thinks we’re marching to set the Riverlands to order, the other half claims we’re marching to the aid of good King Robb.” Sandor’s face twisted in an ugly grimace that might have been something like a smile.

“Robb’s dead,” Arya snapped. “If that’s their purpose, they should have ridden south when he was alive.”

Sandor grunted. “Sure, maybe then we wouldn’t be fighting the crown alone like a bunch of death-seeking lackwits.”

“If it's so bad then why haven’t you left yet?”

“I’m no craven, you little shit, I’m tired. And marching with Baelish is less work than running for now.”

“Seems the same either way, craven.”

“How the fuck have you lived this long? Quit chattering and get back to work.”

Arya bit her cheek and held back her questions. The Hound knew more, but she still had to be careful with him. She still did not know why he had kept her secret from Baelish, or why he had kept Sansa a secret from her. Everything about him was confusing and made her head hurt and she hated it.

A week later she was no wiser. She saw Sansa three times, passing between her carriage and her tent, or praying at the shrine of the Seven, but there were always half a dozen guards and twice as many maidens about her, watching, listening. Arya overheard she was to marry their cousin, the sickly Lord Robin Arryn, and that made her nose wrinkle in disgust. She had seen him too, weak and sickly, pampered at every turn. He would not live long in the Riverlands, Arya thought with scorn, but at least he would be no threat to Sansa for now.

Her nights were split between Robb and the Wolf. The Wolf was traveling northward now, away into lowlands where the fog was thick and the ground wet and earthy. There were no men to hunt, only deer and stray sheep and cattle. Her other nights she spent with Robb’s ghost. Always smiling, always calm, always… strained, and older and different from how she remembered him. Mysteries and confusion confronted her at every waking moment, and all she felt in the end was weariness.

But time marched on and so did the host, passing from the foothills of the Mountains of Moon into the fertile river valleys, still green and lush despite the chill of fall. The host passed through the remains of a village on the third day, filled with vines and moss over a layer of ash. Arya wondered if she should feel guilty for thinking it beautiful. Sandor had become strong enough by then that he rode up at the front with Baelish, and Arya was glad of it, for then she rode closely with Lord Baelish as well.

Harrenhal loomed large at the end of their trek, almost unchanged from how Arya had remembered it, though it must have changed hands half a dozen times since then. It had been a colossal ruin before, and so it was now, almost more like a mountain than anything made by mortal men. Rumors from the outriders came, bearing wild stories that King Robb had returned, that Gregor Clegane had died by his hand. Arya hoped Gregor was dead, but she dared not believe that her brother walked among the living. Robb survived only in her dreams now.

“Where are the Lannisters?” Arya whispered to Sandor as they approached Harrenhal. “I thought they held the castle?”

“You’ll see them soon enough,” Sandor replied.

With each passing minute, Arya felt her terror grow. Where were the siege towers, the lines of breastworks, the trebuchets? She had never seen a battle before but she had sat in the lessons with Robb and Jon sometimes when she could escape from her minders. Baelish was just marching the army straight up into the gaping maw that was the front gate of Harrenhal. Any second now there would be darts and rocks and ballistae raining death on them from above…

...But no death came, and even stranger, the gates opened to welcome them. More shocking still, she spied a knight in white standing ready to greet them on the far side of the gatehouse. A Kingsguard! Here! Her eyes flashed to the Hound. Traitor! It was all she could do to stop herself from screaming at him. Had Baelish betrayed them?

But Arya had no choice. Arri was a mere squire, and squires who broke ranks and fled would be cut down by outriders before even getting a chance to surrender. Arya had no choice but to sit quietly on the back of Craven her horse and trust, trust that the Hound had not led her astray.

They had come under the gatehouse itself now. The grand old building was practically a castle unto itself, a great vaulted hall with a set of portcullises on either end. Arya’s eyes darted around warily, glancing at the murderholes in the roof above, at the arrowslits in the walls to the side. When she had lived here before Lord Tywin’s order had been to have great vats of boiling oil readied in the case of a siege, to be poured on the attackers, to melt their flesh from their bones. Arya could not help wondering whether the Kingsguard that greeted them had made any such preparations.

She could see him more clearly now, and saw that he had brought out the entire garrison to stand in formation behind him, as though they were to be inspected by a superior officer. Besides the garrison standing in formation, the inner courtyard of Harrenhal was barren, the shops and houses that had once filled the square burned or abandoned, and the garrison had been living in tents. Even the old gray ruin bore the scars of war, Arya thought glumly. The memories she had of Harrenhal had never been pleasant, but a part of her had hoped that she would at least be seeing a familiar sight, that she would be returning to a place she knew.

“Blessin be 'pon you, Lord Baelish,” The Kingsguard called, bowing deeply as the Valemen flooded into the courtyard around him. Arya did not know him. He was tall and broad and his armor fit him poorly, but he was no Boros. Despite his words of welcome, his eyes remained hard.

“Blessins and honor 'pon your entrance to your Lordly seat. I bear word from the Queen, who thanks you for everything you’ve done and will do in the defense of the Riverlands against the wicked rebel Robb. The Queen will not forget this service, nor will she forget the service of the Lords of the Vale.”

“It is my honor,” Baelish said, the front of the column stopping just inside the walls. “The Queen must know that I am amongst her most loyal servants. You are Osmund Kettleblack of the Kingsguard, yes?”

The Kingsguard bowed again, “That I am your Lordliness. Knighted after the Blackwater. It was a great honor that I was given charge over the garrison here, and it is a greater honor still to turn it over to you. Harrenhal is yours, and I have drawn the men up for inspection as you asked.”

Baelish gave them a cursory glance, “They seem a bright, fine group of men, only...” he paused, a huge smile blossoming on his lips. “It is unfortunate that they are all Lannister men. I am afraid I will have to order them all to the dungeons.”

Kettleblack stepped back, shock on his features, “Milord?”

The only reply he got was the Valelords calling for an advance, and the host of the Vale surging forward to encircle him and his men. The men of the garrison panicked, some throwing down their arms, others trying to form ranks and fight, still others running for the city of tents that had been put up in the courtyard. In the end it made little difference. Those who fought were defeated, those who surrendered were led away in chains, and those who fled were ridden down by the Vale light horse. Arya and Sandor could only sit and watch, an island in a storm of confusion. She looked up at Baelish, more than once, but the sly man’s composure never shifted in the least. He wore that slight smile as though it had been etched into his face on the day he was born.

“I do not like this,” grumbled Lord Royce, speaking for the first time in three days as he rode near. Arya liked the proud old knight in spite of herself. Her father had feasted him, once in the distant past, and sometimes Arya imagined that he was someone she could trust, that he would help her get her sister back... but Baelish had been a friend of father’s as well, and Royce had left her brother to die alone in the Riverlands. “This was treachery.”

“If you wish to throw a third of your men off the side of those walls to satisfy your honor, Lord Royce, you are more than welcome. But why should we fight to take what the Lannisters offer freely? Harrenhal is mine, by their decree, and I do not see why we should relinquish such a proud fortress willingly. This war will not be easy, and it is greatly to our advantage if we delay a response from the Roses and Lions for as long as we can.”

“And what service did you render the Lannisters, that they should give you such a prize, Baelish? What did you do in their name?”

“A prize? Harrenhal?” Baelish laughed. “Harrenhal is a curse and the lands around it are ash. You should ask what I had done to earn such a death sentence. How long do you think proud Lord Frey would have suffered a poor man with no army as his ruler? How long do you think I should have lived as his overlord, when any roaming pack of Lannister dogs might easily overrun my fortress and put my head on the wall? Cersei wanted to be rid of me, make no mistake, and had it not been for Lady Lysa’s love for me I would be shivering within those walls, waiting for death to take me.”

“Perhaps you did fall out of favor,” Royce replied, “But you were no traitor to the Lannisters, whatever you might claim.”

“The queen hated me, I have no doubt she would have killed me if I gave her a reason. But I kept my treason, such as it was, well hidden.” Baelish laughed. “And yes, you may call me a traitor, call me treasonous, and these are all true! I hated the Lannisters from before King Robert's death, and it was such a sacrifice to hold my tongue and smile at their atrocity. But what else might I have done, Lord Royce? I had no men, no armies, no vaults full of treasure. You had all these and more, and you have done less to curb these Lannisters than I. Or do you mean to hide behind my wife’s skirts and claim that she would not let you intervene?”

Royce’s eyes glinted with inner fire, but his voice was cool. “I will say no more for now, but do not think this matter settled, Lord Baelish.” With that he rode away from their party in disgust.

Arya’s eyes flitted between the assembled Lords, wondering how many had been won over by Baelish’s speech. Corbray ignored him, Templeton and Redfort were near as hostile as Royce, but Shett and Waynwood and Upcliff all seemed happy to see Royce quieted on the matter. Did they believe him? Did Arya herself believe him? Perhaps she would have, if the Hound had not poisoned her mind against him.

A big hand cuffed her shoulder, “I’ll feed you your own teeth if you keep your mouth open like that,” Sandor said roughly, “You have a job, shit, and it doesn’t involve minding the affairs of your betters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure this is my best work, but I'm posting anyway because I don't know how to improve it. I hope that these Arya chapters aren't tiresome for any of you. They're my favorites to write personally.
> 
> Cheers and thanks for reading.


	12. The Kings in the North

Tormund had ridden south with a fresh flesh wound on his shoulder, and his host looked little better. Jon met them two day’s ride from Winterfell. He wished that he might have had warning of Tormund’s approach but the state of affairs in the north had made ravens almost impossible to use. Neither he nor Tormund nor any man in the North knew which castle might be held by the enemy, or which might be held by friends, and these days allegiances changed more swiftly than the wind.

Up until now, Jon felt that the winds had been blowing in his favor. Cerwyn and Dustin and Ryswell had added their strength to his, and he had expected to soon hear that Tormund had taken the Dreadfort. After all, what castellan would hold through a siege when his master’s head adorned their battlements? From there, Jon would have marched on the Wolfswood to free Lady Glover from the Ironborn. Victory and victory and more victory, that was all Jon hungered for these days. But however much he might wish otherwise, the winds were changing, and all he could hope for was to weather the storm.

“There you are!” Tormund roared as they approached, fighting to keep himself upright in the saddle. “King Stark!”

“I assume that you were not able to claim your promised prize?”

“Ha! I never got the chance. I circled the place, cut off the food… everything as nice as a kneeler might like. But it seems my prize was promised to someone else! Hounds of another one of your kneeler king came sniffing around my encampment and we showed them off. Har, we chased them back to their master’s house, but then it was my turn to run and my whole host with me.”

Jon’s grip around his reigns tightened. “Which King, Tormund? Which one of the Kings?”

“The stag king.”

Joffrey, then? The boy was a Lannister to the bone, but his men still rode under the sigil of King Robert, unless…

“It was just a stag, nothing more? A yellow stag?”

“Nay, t’was a flaming stag.”

The wind cut through him like a knife. Jon had seen Stannis’ symbol only once, on the letter that had been sent to the Wall over a year ago. What was Stannis Baratheon invading the North for? The man could not have more than five thousands after the Blackwater, assuming the letters they had received were true. Jon cursed the Boltons for killing Luwin. No doubt this would-be king had sent letters to Winterfell, but without a maester to receive them the letters would go astray. Had Stannis taken their silence for an insult?

“How many did the Stag King have with him?”

Tormund shrugged. “Two or three thousands.”

Jon grit his teeth. Tormund had half again that number, but they would not hold against castle-forged steel, not if he had ten times the force. No, it was better that Tormund had run. Better that he, the King in the North, would see to the defense of the North. Umber, Ryswell, Dustin, and Cerwyn had agreed to follow him for the nonce, but Manderly and Karstark and a dozen others had yet to offer allegiance. Had they offered allegiance to Stannis? The thought made him sick.

“You did rightly, Tormund. Ride with me and we will see to this southron king ourselves.”

Autumn snows lay thick and heavy on the road to the Dreadfort, smoothing the world into a vast flat expanse of white. Thick slate-colored clouds covered the sky from horizon to horizon, and days passed without so much as a glimpse of the sun. But Jon found himself welcoming the cold, welcoming the stillness and emptiness of the landscape. The cold reminded him he was alive, forced him to keep moving, to keep thinking.

The warm solar inside Winterfell had been too stuffy, too crowded for clear-headed thought. He had indulged himself back in Winterfell, and let himself think of Ygritte, of Robb, of Father… and of Rickon and Bran.

Bran. Rickon. Even now the mere thought of their names filled Jon with a rush of emotion. His brothers were alive, alive, and every day of marching must bring them closer together! The idea seemed too sweet to be true. Even if Theon had not lied, even if he had tracked them as far as the miller, how much farther could a cripple, a lackwit, and a boy of four years travel in a world gone mad? Despite it all, Jon could not help but hope.

Hope, and also fear. Rickon and Bran were ahead of Jon in succession. If the story of his brothers was to get out… Jon grimaced. He should have killed Theon before he went north. Why had he withheld justice? He knew the arguments he had made to his lords. Theon was a hostage, a knife against Asha Greyjoy’s throat. But his words had been hollow. He had not believed them himself. Theon was a knife against his own throat; his tale of Bran and Rickon could unmake Jon’s kingdom in a heartbeat.

Who would be the first to leave him? Mors? Lady Dustin? Jon had no illusions of his popularity with his vassals. Half his army would gladly exchange him for an easily guided child. Dustin and Ryswell wanted the war to be over, wanted peace with the Lannisters, and perhaps with Rickon as their puppet, they could achieve that. Lady Catelyn’s blue eyes haunted him at night, judging him for stealing Winterfell from her trueborn children. Oathbreaker, usurper, bastard. In the end, he had become the villain she had always thought him to be.

Peace with the Lannisters. In the heat of his chambers in Winterfell, he had cursed the idea. Every one of his sensibilities revolted against allowing his father’s murderers to live. But in the cold those feelings went numb. Pride, anger, and guilt, none truly mattered. None would stave off the winter that was to come. He would seek peace with the Lannisters and hope that his ancestors could forgive him.

A storm descended on them that lasted for two days, nearly halting their progress entirely. All sense of discipline was lost as howling gales scattered their lines. Men and beasts packed together in dense clumps around the campfires at night, half to warm each other and half so that they would not be lost to the snow. Jon himself slept alone in his tent, and not for the first time he found himself wishing Ygritte could warm his furs.

He dreamed of her some nights, of how she smelled of sweat and pine and leather, of how she laughed and cursed and fought. Other times he dreamed he was Ghost, hunting ahead of the host through the blizzard, coming upon rabbits or deer in the snow and feasting upon their flesh. Ghost did not fear the storm, and Ghost never felt truly alone, for Ghost knew that his brothers still lived, and his sisters did too.

This night Ghost hunted a different sort of game, trailing a horseman from a distance through the snow. The beast was a dun palfrey, short-haired and ill-suited to the blizzard around it. It was a southron horse, a horse that had been foaled in the green fields of the Reach or Stormlands, now brought to the North, to lands where the grass had been covered and the sun had been hidden. Ghost stalked but did not pounce, for the rider had steel and a coat of yellow. Even through the haze of the dream, Jon remembered the significance of that.

“Stark, Stark,” a voice at the entrance to his tent woke him suddenly. Mance’s voice. He stirred amidst his furs and rose to meet the King Beyond the Wall.

“Let Mance enter,” he said, his voice low and thick with sleep.

Mance blew into the tent, his long gray beard turned white with snow, and his smiling eyes bright with the cold. He sat on the chest opposite Jon’s cot and “I am grateful to be received so quickly by royalty such as yourself.”

“I’ve not gone soft just because I’m wearing a crown.” Mance only chuckled in reply. Jon had gone on a great ranging north of the Wall, but Mance had lived there for years. Jon scowled. “I assume you’ve some important information for me?”

“My hunters have returned from their nightly scouting.”

Jon nodded. “They found Baratheon?”

“Your eyes and nose are sharp as ever, King Warg.”

“I’ll thank you not to mention it to Mors or Rakelin.” He was a usurper and a traitor, he would not have them call him a sorcerer as well.

Mance laughed. “They’ll not hear it from me, but they have eyes, and mine is not the only tongue that can wag. Varamyr makes no secret of his talents and so neither can you.”

Jon sighed. “What is the full report?”

“We will not know until morning. The hunters found a Baratheon scout half-frozen in a ditch, but he has no more idea where the camp is than we do.”

“If your scouts are returned, then it must only be an hour until sunrise?”

“The men have already set about rousing themselves. A few of them saw the scout we took prisoner and thought there might be a battle coming.”

“That is well,” Jon said. “Battle may be coming soon enough. Stannis is near.”

An hour later, the sky had begun to turn from black to gray. Morning had come, or something that passed for it. Men walked about, broke their fast, relieved themselves… but always kept a weapon at hand, even as the snow whirled around them. Jon could almost taste the tension in the air. Would battle come in an hour? Would they not see Stannis’ host for a week? No, Jon thought. Stannis was close. Ghost could smell them in the air.

The wind crested and crashed and then slackened suddenly. Jon sensed Mance tense near him. He could feel it too. The storm was ending. The snow still fell, still stopped them from seeing more than a hundred feet in front of them, but it would not last, not for much longer.

Then he saw it. He blinked a moment, clearing his eyes to make certain he had not imagined it, but with each passing moment, it became more clear. Yellow and black and red. The banners of King Stannis Baratheon dotted the hillside in front of them, not more than three miles distant. Stannis and his army had not been near, they had practically been on top of each other.

Shouts went up and down the line, men drawing up into formation and readying for a fight. Jon could only wonder what Stannis’ purpose here was. Had he known of their approach as well? Jon had heard stories from Tormund’s men. He had heard that Stannis kept a witch by his side who could see the future. Had this storm been her work? Had she sought to mask their approach until they were upon Jon and his forces?

Jon shook his head. He could not be seeing grumpkins and snarks in every shadow. Stannis had likely come south from sieging the Dreadfort because his scouts had noted Jon’s approach. No man wanted to fight a battle in front of an enemy castle, so he had come south to fight them. But still, Jon thought that he must have done so unwillingly. Stannis’ army would have suffered as badly as Jon’s own in the storm, and bad weather was never truly a boon to anyone. Winter killed without any respect for rank or righteousness or honor. Jon thought of cold blue eyes and shuddered.

“He’s requesting parley,” Jon muttered, though loud enough for the Free Folk around him to hear. Perhaps Stannis was not so inflexible as the rumors had painted him. “Mance, Tormund, Lord Umber, Ser Rakelin, you’ll all ride with me.”

Mance smiled, “I don’t think this southerly lord will take much joy in treating with a pack of wildlings.”

“Then he can treat with my steel,” Jon said, his lip curling. He would not sacrifice everything he had built in the North for the sake of a pretender, a failed claimant of a failed dynasty. Jon had enough corpses without also taking on House Baratheon.

Stannis rode to meet them, a woman in red filing in behind him. The King towered atop his horse, as dark and as threatening as a thunderhead. Beside him rode men of the south, from minor houses Jon could not name. The Florent fox, he recognized, though not the obese man who rode under the flag. The sun of house Karstark he recognized too, and the little girl who led the knights must be young Alys. She had danced with Robb at Winterfell once, though that felt like an age ago.

“Are the gods determined to punish the North for some great crime, that they would inflict Stannis Baratheon upon us after all we have endured?” The words came too easily to Jon, pent-up years of frustrations spilling out all at once.

“There are no gods here,” Stannis said. “Only me and my men, and you know what crimes we seek to punish you for. You are an oathbreaker, a rebel. You have consorted with the enemies of the realm to push a false claim to the seat of Winterfell.”

“I saved the North from tyranny, and I can do it again.”

“And what do you call your own rule, Jon Snow? I came North at the request of the Watch, only to find that a brother of the Watch had betrayed his own order, and forced them to let the raiders through. I came North to find that a baseborn bastard of House Stark had laid claim to the rebel crown of his half brother and had forced the lords of the North to bend the knee to him at swordpoint, and now you come out to meet me with a host of flea-bitten wildlings at your back. Do not speak to me of tyranny.”

“Shall I speak to you of misrule then? Shall I speak to you of how my father rode south to serve your brother and was rewarded by your nephew shortening him by a head?”

“I have no nephew.”

“Then why did you molder on Dragonstone and leave my father friendless in the capital? Why did you not aid my father in wrestling the throne from the Lannisters? Then, as now, you have done too little and done it too late. Had I not broken my honor for the sake of the Watch, you would have come North to find only ruins and corpses. Every brother in Castle Black will bear witness to the truth of my tale.”

Stannis’ lip curled with contempt. “If you saved the North from wildlings, then where did you come by all these braying dogs?”

Jon’s blood burned hot. Who was Stannis Baratheon, and what had he accomplished to sit on his charger and mock the plight of the Free Folk? This southron king was no different than all the other lords Jon had seen. Grasping men who believed they were owed the lives of everything they laid eyes on, who had no appreciation for the responsibility to which they had been born. For a moment Jon held his tongue. It would do no good to be angry, to show himself the petulant boy half his host believed him to be. But the moment passed and he was still red with rage. It burst up from his lungs like a gust of wind and came out his mouth as a laugh.

“Did I say that I saved the Watch from Wildlings?” He gasped, between the laughs “Do you think it is flesh and blood that the north contends against?” Stannis would not believe the truth, could not believe the truth, no more than Mors or Dustin had, but Jon was too angry to care. “Winter is coming. Death is coming. The Dead walk North of the Wall and were it not for Mance, were it not for me, these braying dogs you see before you would walk with them. You have no notion of what terrors lurk in the Lands of Always Winter.”

Stannis’ arm went for his sword, and for a moment Jon thought that he meant to charge, but Stannis drew his sword only to raise it skyward, a great, twisting light of flame exploding from his scabbard as he did so. Some great sorcery had been laid upon the blade to make it shine as though it were made of fire itself, and Jon had to rein in his horse to prevent it from bucking, even as he gaped in shock himself.

“I know of the evils beyond the Wall,” Stannis said, his voice hard and resolute. “I have seen them in the flames, and I will destroy them even if it should cost my life. It is for this purpose that I have come North, and there is no other to whom I can trust this task. Bend your knee, Snow, or be destroyed.”

Jon searched for words for a moment, unsure of what to say. “How?” he said at last, the word dropping from his mouth without thought.

“The night is dark and full of terrors,” the Red Woman said, raising her voice for the first time. “The servants of the Lord of Light know this well, and among them King Stannis is the chief. The Lord grants us visions, and we have seen the face of the Great Other that lurks beyond the Wall in the Heart of Winter. We mean to bring war to him, for the future of mankind. King Stannis is Azor Ahai reborn, and the fell light he wields is the Lightbringer itself, the sword that shall turn back the night.”

Jon’s mouth closed and his eyes went back to Stannis as the colors of the flaming sword played over his harsh features. Was this some cheap trick, some minor conjuration? It could easily be so, and yet... The Stag King had come north. He had come north to save the Watch when no other King had. And his woman spoke of the terrors beyond the Wall, spoke as if she had seen them herself. Could he be an ally against the forces of Winter?

A dry laugh broke through the tension like water bursting through a damn. “This is the first as I’ve heard of any Azor Ahai,” Mance said. “But if you’ll stand against the Others, I don’t see as there needs to be war between us. If you and King Jon need to settle who’s in charge between the two of you, have a duel and leave the rest of us to fight another day.”

Jon’s heart lurched in his throat. Did Mance mean to get him killed? He had never met a man his own age who could best him with a blade, but Stannis was a man grown, a full foot taller than Jon himself, and lean with muscle. Jon would not like his chances against such a man, Valyrian steel or no. Their army had every advantage, why should he cast that aside?

“Do not mistake me for my brother,” Stannis growled, his face turning suddenly dark and fierce. “Your king has no claim to anything, and I will not countenance him with a trial by combat. He will bend the knee or be destroyed.”

Despite himself, Jon felt his anger rise within him again. “I have the blood, and I have the will of King Robb,” he stated darkly. “I have half the North unified under me, and any army twice the size of your own. My claim to the North is stronger than your claim to the Iron Throne.”

Stannis smiled, and Jon felt as though he had just put his foot into a bear trap. A plain man wearing a simple cloak rode out to the front of Stannis’ host. Only it was not a man at all, but a woman, with hard lines on her face and a small child riding in front of her on the saddle. A small boy...

Jon’s mouth fell open and words failed him.

“You are no King, Jon Snow,” Stannis growled. “You are a usurper. Manderly and Karstark and half the North knows it for a truth. King’s Robb’s will names you his heir only if all his brothers are dead, but there are trueborn sons of house Stark that yet live, and so you are nothing. Does that disappoint you, Snow?”

“Rickon...” Jon declared, his eyes wide. The boy glared back at him with naked anger, and Jon felt guilt twist in his gut. Jon had left him and Bran alone, unprotected. He wanted to run to Rickon, to hug him and carry him away to Winterfell where he might be safe, but… but nowhere was safe anymore. Another thought struck him then and filled him with fear. Where was Shaggydog? Had he been killed in the raid of the ironborn? Surely Ghost would have caught his scent on the wind if he were near. Had Stannis killed the wolf when Rickon had been taken captive?

“How came you by this boy?” Mors growled.

“Does it matter?” Stannis asked, “He and a wildling woman were fleeing east and we were marching west. His wolf mauled three of our men before the wildling woman calmed him, and boy and wolf alike have been enjoying our hospitality ever since.”

“He’s been your prisoner, you mean,” Jon replied. “Or else you would have let his wolf roam free.”

“The boy has enjoyed every hospitality, and his wild beast lives comfortably enough,” Stannis growled.

Stannis might as well threaten them with Rickon’s execution. Tormund and Mance might not care whether Jon’s brother lived or died, but Mors and Rakelin would. Jon himself would. That was Stannis’ intent, no doubt, to divide Jon’s forces and sow dissent. Jon could feel the shift in the air, as his vassals came to the same realizations as him. Robb’s will had named Jon heir, but only if Robb and all his trueborn brothers were dead. If they beat Stannis here, and Stannis did not kill Rickon, who then would they serve when the battle was done? Whether they found victory or defeat, Stannis had ensured that Jon could not rule the North.

Jon felt divided even amongst himself. Winterfell was his, was his own lordly seat, and the thought of giving it up to his child brother made him ache. But the thought of doing anything else, of usurping his brother… the memories of Catelyn’s judging eyes rose to hate him. If he took Winterfell over Rickon, he would be proving everything she had ever said of him to be true.

But what did that matter? Rickon could not be trusted. He was a boy of four, easily guided, and easily led. The North needed strong leadership. Westeros needed strong leadership, needed a stalwart shield, a sword in the darkness… and then Jon looked again to Stannis’ brilliant blade and his thoughts darkened further.

“Has the northern wind frozen your insolent tongue?” Stannis’ words cut through the silence with all the delicacy of a greataxe. “If you have words to speak, speak, but if you do not then let us fight and be done with it.”

Stannis was too eager for war. Jon’s host outnumbered him two to one and was in better supply. Stannis should be retreating, not threatening battle. There must be something that his scouts had missed. Had Stannis prepared the land for them, set traps amidst the snow? Jon opened his mouth to speak, thoughts whirling. There were too many mistakes he could make, too many wrong paths to choose, and he had not enough time to think.

The cold wind blew through him, and he found the words. He was surprised how steadily he spoke them.

“Rickon lives, but he is no king, not so long as he is your prisoner. On this matter Robb’s will is clear. Neither Rickon nor Sansa will rule the North so long as they are a hostage. Return him to us and I will step down to act as his regent, but keep him as your hostage and we will fight to free him.” He would not be a usurper, would not be a kinslayer, not even with Winterfell as the promised prize. He would save at least one of his brothers if he could.

“Bend the knee,” Stannis repeated, “And I will return him to you.”

Jon’s lip curled back in a snarl, but he restrained himself. This king had come north to fight the Others, and Jon would be a fool to provoke him. War between them could only spell disaster, regardless of the victor. But would Stannis pull them into wars in the south, as his brother had done? Would Dustin and Ryswell agree to peace with a man so obviously opposed to peace with the Lannisters?

Jon sighed. “Let us get out of the wind before we speak more on this matter.”


	13. Red Robb Returns

“To the Rebel Lord Stark. Word has come to our ears of your success at Fairmarket. Your continued perseverance has earned you the admiration of many, even our own. But you have persevered as long as you can. Lord Protector Baelish leads the Vale against you, and Lord Tarly leads the Reach. To your north, ironborn and wildlings led by your own traitorous brother have sacked Winterfell, and winter is coming. Lord Robb, my father and yours were friends once. Can we not put an end to this war? Can we not have peace? Lay aside your crown and swear fealty to us. We are not unmerciful. Your ancient seat shall be returned to you, and aid will be granted toward the end of defeating the rival claimants who plague your realm in the North. Justice against Lord Frey for his crimes against the gods Old and New shall be administered. Generous terms of surrender shall be granted to Lord Edmure and all those who swear fealty to you as well, and all will be allowed to their seats of power without fear of further reprisal.”

The scribe cleared his throat nervously, setting the message down upon the table. “It is signed in the name of Tommen of House Baratheon, first of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protect-”

“We know all the titles he claims,” The Smalljon rumbled, his forehead creased and deep in thought.

“Ahem, I suppose you do. However, ah, one matter of interest is that this letter is also signed in the name of Margaery of House Tyrell, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

“The Tyrells rise in power,” Dacey said, feeling numb. Up until now, the Lannisters had been their opponent, and they had defeated them in nearly every battle. Doubtless, that was now why the Lannisters had fallen out of favor with the new king. But the Tyrells were fresh, strong, and had as many spears and lances as the North had trees. Even supposing that victory could be achieved against such odds, how many years would it take?

“The politicking in the capital is of no interest to me,” Jonos Bracken spat. “This news from the North concerns me more. I had thought your bastard brother sworn to the Watch, King.”

Dacey pursed her lips. So far as Dacey knew, the Smalljon had never told the host of his plans for Jon Snow, and so this would be the first they heard of him. News from the North had been scarce and often contradictory, but it seemed the Lannisters had been better informed. Jon led a host of wildlings to sack Winterfell? The thought seemed impossible, ridiculous. How many nights had the King, over a mug of ale, sung the praises of his half brother? How many times had he not looked away wistfully, as though wishing his brother present?

“My will legitimizes my bastard brother and names him my heir, since I had no issue of my own and no living trueborn siblings who were not Lannister puppets,” The King declared. “Lord Umber saw fit to send word North after he left the Twins, and they negotiated with the Watch for my brother to be released from his oaths. Since then we have heard nothing from him, and letters sent North informing him of my return have received no reply.”

“And now the bastard has turned his coat,” Jonos said, the words squeezing out through clenched teeth. “Falseborn boys are not to be trusted, your Grace.”

Dacey hid her face in a mug of ale. Her mother had always insisted that Dacey and her sisters had been fathered by a bear in the woods, but now did not seem to be the time to mention that.

“It is hard to say how much truth there is in this story of the Lannisters,” said Jon Umber. “Ravens are unreliable things, and it is a long way from Riverrun to Last Hearth. We have been long in the field, unable to receive letters, and no doubt Jon Stark has been similarly engaged.”

“And when a man stabs me in the back, it might be because his sword slipped,” Bracken said, “But the easier explanation is more like to be true, I think. This Jon Snow is a base bastard who spits on the memory of the Lady Catelyn.” Robb’s assembled lords met this statement with rumbles of assent.

“Who cares about the bastard?” Dacey blurted. “We’ve Tywin and Tarly and Baelish to consider.”

The room went quiet, and Dacey bit her tongue. She had an ax for a tongue and she would never be a master of it.

“The wench is right,” Jonos said, a moment later, “Baelish won’t be leading fewer than a score of thousands, Tywin will have ten himself, and as for the Reach...” his voice trailed off.

“We have time,” The King replied, his voice low and cool. “Baelish’s army only just arrived at Harrenhal and Tarly was tied up in Maidenpool until a few weeks ago. They’ll be slow, waiting for reinforcements and scrambling for supplies as they march all the way across the Riverlands. We have more than enough time to settle affairs with the Freys on our own terms.”

The Smalljon’s head jerked up and he nodded thoughtfully. “They promised us only justice for Walder, not for all his sons who aided him, nor for Tywin. And if we can retrieve Lord Tully and vanquish the Freys, we likely can secure a much better deal than mere peace.”

Or, Dacey thought, they might decide not to bother with peace at all, once they had marched their armies all the way to the Sunset Sea. But she was a no-count bastard of an irrelevant house, and she had no interest in interrupting these great lords. If the King found the Smalljon’s reasoning to be sound, who was Dacey Mormont to challenge him?

Hours of discussion followed and try as she might, Dacey could ill follow the discussions of the lords. Each one of them had a different vision for what might be the best strategy. Half of them seemed to have a desire for peace, others seemed to only hope to return to their holds intact. The quiet, gravelly beaches of Bear island seemed no more than a distant memory to her now, she could scarcely hope for them anymore. The ale at least, was fresh, as was the venison and the fried apples. Perhaps she would die tomorrow, or in a week, but at least for now she had had her fill of food and a fire to keep her warm. Melancholy was a luxury she had not been able to afford herself for months, and now that she had a moment of respite she drank deeply of bitter remembrance.

“Lady Dacey,” Jon Umber’s voice was soft and low as he settled down next to her. “You are most quiet this evening.”

Dacey smiled weakly in reply, her eyes turning momentarily to the King, wondering if he could overhear them, but he simply stared straight forward, looking into the flames of the hearth without blinking, as though he could see something there that they could not.

“These great lords have no desire to hear the advice of a girl from Bear Island,” Dacey said with a grimace. “If I spoke it would only remind them that they have forgotten to throw me out.”

“If they do think such things, then they are fools. But I am no fool, and neither are you. If something troubles you, I would hear of it.”

Dacey felt her face flush red. Perhaps it was the heat, or the richness of the food, or the ale. She could not say. “The men are tired,” she answered lamely. “Bracken and Piper and yourself are men of action, you have been raised to fight and to fight and to keep fighting. You see the potential for great reward if you fight just a little longer… but the men of our host, the common soldiers, and even the knights… they were not made to fight forever. Even a strong mule’s back will break if you place too heavy a burden upon it.”

“You fear desertions.”

“We have those already. Not nearly so many as before, and we find three stragglers for every one that deserts, but…” She sighed. “What if the men hear we refused an offer of peace? What if the Freys should bloody us? What if Baelish or Tarly should steal a march upon us?”

“We must make sure that none of these things happens, then.”

Dacey stared at her reflection in the mug. She had been young when she came South, barely five and twenty, but now she was old, old and weary, with lines upon her face that would have better fit a woman twice her age. “We can’t survive another Fairmarket,” she said simply.

The battle had been ended with victory, decisive victory, even, but victory with a cost. The King had said that the deaths of Lannister captives would force the enemy to surrender, would break their spirit, but it had not only been Lannister spirits that had been broken. One of her own men, a hero who had fought in every battle since they left the North, had left his tent empty just the week before, and Dacey knew all too well why. For a moment Dacey fancied that she saw entrails hanging from the beams of the ceiling, but then she blinked and they were gone.

Jon Umber drank his ale in silence, considering her words. “Do you have a plan, then? A path to such a clean victory of the Freys may be impossible, given the threats that press at us from every side. There is no time for clever maneuvering, and so we must let them choose the field of battle. We have two men every one of theirs, but at a crossing or with a stout wall for them to hide behind… numbers mean less than they otherwise might.”

“Oldstones,” she replied, “They’ll have broken the siege around Seagard and advanced to Oldstones by now. Our scouts will confirm as much on the morrow, I warrant. Oldstones may be a ruin, but it’s large enough to hold their army, and the situation of the land is ideal for defense. With the bridge at Fairmarket out, we’ll have to either fight them if we mean to move northward or else build boats with which to ferry the river. We face a choice between bad and worse.”

“Lady Dacey.” The King said, his voice cool and quiet.

She sat up straight as if she had been struck, then turned and bowed her head to him in deference. The chatter ceased and she felt the eyes of the whole room weighing down upon her.

“I wish that you had spoken up earlier, Lady Dacey,” the King stated, his eyes still staring unblinkingly into the flames, “For you have offered me an answer to a riddle I have long been pondering. I know now what our plan for battle must be.” The King smiled suddenly, his teeth bright and white and sharp. “Rejoice, my Lords, and have faith in your king. I will end the line of the Freys with a hundred men.”

\---

They crossed the Blue Fork at night, one hundred men and horse on rafts they had salvaged from the ruins of Fairmarket. The boards beneath them leaked and creaked with every passing moment, threatening to split asunder and let the cold swift water carry them to their death. She sent a prayer to the gods for courage and a quick death if her time had come.

But nothing of the sort happened. The waters remained quiet and the tillers found the shore by the light of the waning half-moon. By dawn, they had already left the sight of the Fork miles behind them. By sunset, they had made camp in an abandoned village. Weary as she was, Dacey could not sleep yet. The Smalljon joined her by the fire once again and she smiled to see it.

“The King puts much faith in the Brotherhood,” the Smalljon observed idly in between spoonfuls of beef broth. “As quickly as we’re advancing, it would be easy for them to lead us into a trap or give the Freys warning of our approach.”

“Do you mistrust them?” Once, Dacey had held suspicions about the Brotherhood. She had thought them nothing more than brigands with a strange god, but they had proved themselves at Fairmarket. They had been fighting in this war longer than she had, longer than anyone, and they knew the Riverlands better than she knew Mormont Hall.

“No,” Jon replied. “I trust them.”

“And a good thing too!” Anguy’s high laugh interrupted them as he came down to sit beside them. Dacey smiled. The cocky Marcher bowman had become one of her favorites. “Since trusting us with your lives is what you’ve done. Have to say, I’m surprised you came with us, Lord Umber. I’d have given you equal odds of being given command over the greater host.”

“If the King is going, why not me as well?”

“The King being odd is expected. He’s been touched by the Lord ‘o Light. Meaning no disrespect o’ course.”

“Of course not,” Jon grunted. “Swear by whatever god you please, red, old, new or… fuck, don’t swear at all. As long as you’re by our side in the melee I don’t much care.”

“The name of your god troubles me little, I’ll agree with Lord Umber about that much,” Dacey said. “Your name for the king troubles me more.”

“What’s wrong with calling him the Red King?” Anguy laughed. “I thought it fine, fierce name.”

“Fine and fierce it may be, but it’s also a Bolton name,” Dacey replied. “Back when the Boltons used to flay men, alive before they submitted to the Starks, they called themselves the Red Kings. The Northmen in the host do not much care for the comparison.”

She found herself sighing despite herself. When she had been a child, the Red Kings of old had seemed like horrible monsters and she had had nightmares of Red King Rogar Bolton coming after her with his knife... but now those nightmares seemed dull, distant, and mild by comparison.

The Smalljon scowled. “Traitor scum, that Bolton is. I wonder if he’s already signing his letters as ‘the Red King.’”

Anguy’s eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “M’thanks Lady Dacey, and m’thanks again for your patience with our misstep. I will try to spread the word, but I fear the name may have stuck by now, no matter how much I spread the word.”

“Win this war, and we can let the Maesters squabble over what to call him.”

Anguy shook his head. “Whatever happens next, the war the Brotherhood meant to fight’s been lost. We set out from the capital to protect the smallfolk of the Riverlands, and we’ve...” he drew in a sharp breath. “We’ve done our best, but in the end, I don’t know how much it’s mattered.”

“You brought back the King,” Dacey said.

“We did,” Anguy said, and Dacey felt sure he meant to say more, but she would not press the question.

The Smalljon was not so delicate. “You regret joining your forces to ours?”

“The Brotherhood ain’t mine. They ain’t Throros’, and they weren’t properly Beric’s either. The Brotherhood belonged to no man, that was the whole point.”

“Do you regret joining us yourself then?”

Anguy stared into his soup. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. It’s like you said, about squabbling maesters. We need to win this war before we can sort out what’s regret and what’s pride.” He drew himself up straighter. “I’m glad to not be on the same side as Bolton, though. His men were beasts in human skin.”

Jon laughed. “Regardless of your reasons, we’re happy to have you, and the war will be over all the quicker because of your help.”

“But why are you here?” Anguy asked, seeming to recover some of his lost spark. “We’ve strayed far from the original question. Why are you here with rogues like me when you could be leading the host?”

Jon shrugged. “The King tells me where to go, and I go. It’s not my place to question the whys and the whens.”

Dacey raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know why he wanted you?“

Jon paused, uncertain. “In truth, no.”

“You didn’t notice that this was something of a reunion?” Dacey laughed slightly. “A celebration of Lord Edmure’s wedding. You, me, Donnel Locke, Robin Flint, Ser Patrek... The whole of the old battle guard is here with him. Or all of them that are left at any rate.” There had been thirty of them once, but only half of them remained.

“Oh,” Jon said, a rare smile peeking out from beneath his beard. Dacey tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear and looked away. Those had been happier times. Dacey was happy that the King had remembered that much.

“You’re all a bunch of fools,” Anguy said with a laugh. “It makes me like you all the better.” He clapped Dacey on the shoulder before leaving as quickly as he had come. “Get some rest, both of you.”

Dacey sighed and drained the rest of her bowl. The broth was plain food, but rich and hot and filling. Anguy had been right, she needed rest, but she felt too tired, too comfortable to leave the fire, leave the Smalljon’s company and find her furs.

The Twins. They were headed back. It seemed like a place out of an old story, like a place that did not truly exist. Would she be able to summon her courage and walk back through those bloodied gates again? Would she serve her King loyally as she had before? Yes, she told herself. Surely she would. The King’s plan was madness, but if he told her to have faith, faith she would have. They would take the Twins. They would kill Lord Walder and avenge all those who had been lost. They would make peace, they would…

She did not know what they would do after that.

She looked to Jon and found that he had been staring at her, that he kept staring at her even when she locked eyes with him. She looked away and began gathering her things. “I had best see myself to my tent.”

“Might I see you?” The Smalljon said, his words suddenly clumsy and unsure. “See you to your tent, I mean?”

Dacey blinked, turning back to him with surprise. She was tired and she ached in a thousand places and they would be riding hard tomorrow… but...

“Oh at least that far, I should think.”

\---

Every day that passed brought them closer and closer to the Twins, and soon every hedgerow and ditch brought back some painful memory. Here she had stood and fought against Frey light horse that had raided their camp. There she had shared her last skin of wine with a dying Glover man. But she had expected such remembrances. More surprising was that they only filled her with determination, with purpose. They had fled from here ill-supplied and ill-fed, with a dead king and all the might of the Twins at their back, but now they returned, with a reborn king and a righteous cause.

The Smalljon felt it too, she could tell. He never spoke of his feelings, but she had known him long enough to discern his moods. His posture, his eyes, his… manner of making love, all these said more than enough.

Dacey harbored no doubt that the others knew that she and Jon shared a tent, but none of them had seen fit to comment, and for that much Dacey was grateful. Not for her own sake. Dacey had been born on Bear Island with a nameless father and when she had finally come south, it was with Jorah’s black reputation preceding her. She had been long accustomed to sneers and disrespect. But for Jon’s sake, for Lord Umber’s sake, Dacey was happy that their affair passed by without remark or censure.

She first caught sight of the Twins as they crested a great hill just to the west of the fortress. At that distance, she could make out little more than the faded blue silhouette of two castles and a bridge and tower between them. The Twins looked tiny from up on the hill, as though she could reach out and crush them both with her hand. But she remembered all too well how large and strong those castles truly were.

To lay siege to the Twins, the King would have needed thousands of men and weeks to prepare, and even then if an enemy force should appear to bring them battle they would be destroyed piecemeal. The Twins was not unlike Riverrun in this regard, and well did Dacey remember how disastrously that siege had ended for the Lannisters. The King had a plan, of course, but in truth, if anyone other than the King had proposed such a scheme...

“Surely they must know we’re here,” she said, giving voice to a thought that had been running through her mind for days.

“Not much they can do about it if they do know,” Anguy said with a laugh. “We may only have a hundred men with us but they have fewer than half that number. One of our boys got in close the day before to have a look and he confirmed as much. It seems luck is on our side at last.”

“Lucky is making it this far without being discovered,” Dacey replied. “If he’s truly left himself so few guards, that’s something more than luck.”

“The work of the gods?”

Dacey snorted. “The work of a stupid enemy commander. Frey has more than fifty sons, why keep so few near to him?”

Anguy shrugged. “I suppose they’re concerned with holding our main host at Oldstones. It's a good thing, though. I don’t know if this plan of the King’s would work if it had been otherwise.”

Dacey looked to the front of their little party, to where the King rode with his most trusted supporters. He had spoken with such confidence when he first announced his scheme, so many days ago, that none had dared to question him. But Anguy spoke the truth. Had this merely been a gambit? But the King had always had that strange, unearthly intuition, she told herself. She had given him her faith, and he had rewarded her yet again. She would put more faith in him yet, before this was all over. It was not the place of an ax to question the hand that wielded it.

No light but the stars, no sound but the flow of the river, and nothing before them except the Twins. Most of the King’s party had been left behind. Only Dacey and the Battle Guard remained with the King now. They had stolen a brace of ships upstream from the Twins and floated down under cover of darkness. The castles themselves loomed ahead, huge dark shadows against the night with a great bridge spanning the river between them. The Twins were not half so mighty as Winterfell or Harrenhal, but still, the size confounded her. The bridge had been built so thick and wide that it supported a strong keep twice the size of Mormont Hall in the middle of it.

Only one thought comforted Dacey. The report of the scouts seemed to be true. Only one window in fifty showed any sign of light or life. Still, she felt the old fear welling up inside her. They had lost half the battle guard at the Twins on the way out, how many would they lose on the way in? Would any of them survive? Anguy had said that only fifty armed men guarded the Twins, but Dacey knew there would be others. Hundreds of smiths, tanners, scribes… any of whom might take up arms against them.

Most terrifying of all was the dark. The dark obscured every face, every banner, and made friend from foe indistinguishable. Even marching in the dark could be a hazard. No preparation, no reason, no strategy would be of any avail here. In the dark, no man was any wiser or more clever than a beast.

But doubtless the King depended upon that.

Doubtless he had planned this entire journey such that they would arrive on a moonless night when the darkness would hide them as they came down the river. Doubtless he depended on the terror the men of the Twins would feel, as the Young Wolf and his fellows sprang from the Trident to exact vengeance.

They had almost come up to the Twins now, next to the rough stones that formed the link between the castle and the bridge. Silence had been the rule until now, but there was no hope of keeping silent much longer. The boats rocked and creaked as every man aboard readied himself for the climb.

Dacey was the first from her boat to start the climb, jumping to the rocks and clinging for her life. She had climbed steeper inclines in the peaks north of Winterfell, but not like this. Not in full battle dress. Not in the dark. Not on stones that were wet with spray from the river. But fear had no place here. Turning back was impossible, and so she climbed upward.

Somewhere in the dark below a man fell with a splash. Was it Jon? Was it one of her other old fellows of the battle guard? She did not dare look. Her muscles ached. Her fingers creaked with effort. Just a few more feet, just…

A guard’s face appeared above her. Her heart stopped in her chest as the boy’s eyes widened in fear… but then half a dozen crossbow bolts sprouted from his neck and chest.

He fell with a half-strangled scream, writhing on the stones as Dacey pulled herself to stand on the bridge. She had barely found her footing before another guard thrust a spear in her face. She dodged on instinct and struck him in the face with the hilt of her mace. The guard stumbled. She struck him again, this time breaking his shoulder, and again, breaking his chest. A third blow and a fourth and and then...

“To the King!” Jon growled, drawing himself up and pushing past her in the dark. Dacey left the man to die and followed him.

The King had taken the lead, cutting down a Frey man as they pushed to the keep in the center of the bridge. The Keep of the Crossing, it was called. Push to the keep. Mallister and the others would see to the castle.

They fell on the few guards that had rallied like a storm. Five men dead in as many heartbeats, and then the King controlled the Keep of the Crossing. A frightened old woman in a wimple appeared atop one of the staircases and Dacey grabbed her by the wrist and locked her in a side chamber. She and Jon raced through the Keep, room by room until they had made sure it was entirely free of enemies.

“Who was it that fell?” she asked. “I couldn’t see.”

“Flint,” Jon replied. “Norrey too, though I never heard a splash.”

Dacey grimaced. Every man they lost tonight would be a dear friend of many years. Every man they lost would be like losing an uncle, a brother, a son. The sound of clashing steel roused her from her thoughts. They had no time for grief yet. She and Jon raced down the stairs, nearly colliding with Ser Patrek Mallister and the rest of the King’s guard as they poured through the doorway, slamming it behind them even as Frey men tried to break it down.

“What happened?” Jon roared.

“There were more of them than we expected in the castle,” Patrek said, his teeth clenched in pain. “Went well at first. Got through the gate and right into the barracks. Killed five of them before they knew we were there but...” His voice trailed off. Dacey needed to hear no more. She rushed back up the stairs, up and up until she came out at the top. The king was standing there, a roaring signal-fire just behind him, coloring his gray cloak red and orange with light. She went to his side to look down and gasped.

Too many men had gathered below them. A dozen armed guards with more rallying every moment. She felt her heart sink. So many awake and ready to arms! For every one guard below there would be three back in the castle, putting on armor and picking up their weapons…

“We won’t be able to take the East Castle,” Dacey murmured.

If the King was concerned, his face did not show it. “With the signal-fire lit, Thoros and the Brotherhood will storm the East Castle soon enough.”

“They’ll be slaughtered. The best we can do here is hold out, and perhaps keep the West Castle from reinforcing the East. which leaves, what, three or four score Frey defenders at the gate?”

“Nonetheless, we will prevail.”

Dacey stopped and silenced herself. She had followed the King this far, there was no use in challenging him now.

“Who is up there?” A voice called out from below. “Who are you?” The speaker on the bridge was a tall, thin man wearing the symbol of the Crossing, but more than that Dacey could not discern in the darkness.

The King smiled, stepping forward to the edge of the tower. “Do you not recognize me, cousin? Mine uncle married your younger sister, I should think you would remember me.”

The speaker on the bridge took a step back, aghast, and then Dacey recognized him. Perwyn. The man had been part of the battle guard with the Smalljon and herself and had fought at Riverrun and the Whispering Woods alongside them. At the Red Wedding, his own sister's wedding, he had been suspiciously absent. Had that been because he was loyal to the King still? Would he prove an ally? Dacey felt the beginnings of a plan form in the back of her mind.

“I… King Stark,” Perwyn said, his voice unsure. “I see the rumors are true. What are you-”

“I have come again to bring a reckoning to your house,” the King said flatly. “I have come to bring vengeance and blood to you and your kin, and any who would stand with you.”

“You are trapped in the Tower of the Crossing, surrounded by a hundred men at arms. Your Grace, perhaps...”

Sudden movement atop the west castle caught Dacey’s eye. The peak of the tower was lower than either the East Castle or the West, and from that height a guard could easily...

“Your Grace!‘ She screamed, tackling the King to the ground as an arrow clattered on the ground next to them. She scrambled for the stairs, pulling the King behind her. She heard more arrows fall around her. She and the King made it to the stairs, stumbling and tripping downwards. Pain flashed in her calf as she tried to right herself.

The King stood quickly and turned from her without a word, walking down the stairs. “The Freys will not resolve to attack us immediately,” he said with confidence. “Perwyn is the most senior Frey here, but he is not trusted. They have gathered quickly but now that they are gathered it will take time for them to choose who is in command.”

Dacey ignored the pain in her leg as she hobbled after him. “Your Grace, Perwyn Frey was not among those at the Red Wedding and he served you loyally, he may be amicable-”

“I do not strike deals with Freys,” the King stated, his voice absolute. “Never again.”

She bowed her head. “As you will, Your Grace. I will begin preparing for their assault.”

“Their assault?” The King turned to her, a dry smile warming his features. “Did you think I meant to hole up in this keep like a mouse until the Brotherhood pulled them back to the East Castle? They are leaderless, headless, and we will spear them through in a single charge.”

Madness. But he was King, and she had followed him this far. “As you say, sire.”

They passed down into the floor of the keep, where the companions of the king had gathered. Ten men remained. Ten men of skill and discipline, veterans who had fought in every battle and had the scars to prove it. Ten men, against…

“Nigh on forty out there now,” Mikkel Cerwyn growled from where he knelt by the spyhole. Dacey’s heart fell. Four to one. Swords against pikes, with archers overhead, at four to one odds. Mikkel Cerwyn took his eye away from the spyhole and grimaced. “Forty men, and more arriving every second.”

“Then we must strike before they rally more,” The King replied, fastening on his helm and stepping toward the door. “Follow me.”

“Your Grace,” Ser Patrek said, “Your Grace, pray let one of us lead the charge. Any one of us would gladly-”

“Don’t fall behind,” the King stated, and flung open the door.

The battle guard surged forward from the tower as one man. Dacey herself ran only a step behind the king, her feet eating up the ground as she gained speed. The Freys were unprepared for their assault, standing in complete disorder, and even as the Stark battle guard began to close with them, many still stood still as if in surprise. The other attempted to rally, to draw up in line against them… but too late. Dacey pushed a pike aside with her shield and crushed a man’s helm with a blow of her mace. Another spear glanced off her armor and she closed with its wielder and killed him too. Jon to her left, the King to her right, and half a dozen heroes behind them, and all the Frey men fled from them.

Dacey heard a mad voice laughing above the sounds of slaughter, and then realized it was her own. But how could she do otherwise than laugh? Forty were fleeing from ten. What madness was this?

“Take the gate! Take the castle!”

Arrows fell amongst them now, but they pressed on, heedless of the danger, cutting down men who stumbled on the retreat. Perwin Frey lay on the ground, his helm half open and his leg slick with blood.

“Please, Lady Dacey,” he called as the battle guard advanced, “Please...”

She caught him on the chin with a blow from her mace, and that silenced his pleas. They were almost to the door, now, the door that opened to the side of the East Castle gate. A tall man in plate was the last through the door before he closed it behind him, leaving three of his fellows locked on the outside where Mikkel and Ser Patrek cut them down in short order.

“Jon!” the King called, and the Smalljon stepped forward, longaxe in hand. The Smalljon stood seven feet tall, with strong arms and broad shoulders to match, and he threw his whole frame into a blow against the door, splinters flying out into the dark. An arrow glanced off the shoulder of his plate but he continued on as if unaware, striking the door two, three, four times more. The door had been made of sound construction, hardwood planks layered over one another at crossed grains. The Smalljon was breathing hard now, his blows coming slowly and with more labor, but the door was yielding as well, its craftsmanship giving way to raw force.

An arrow caught Marc Glover in a gap of his armor and he went down with a scream. Dacey grit her teeth and stooped low over them, seeing if aught could be done to bind his wound…

But then the door gave way and the King called them to press on, press through. Dacey’s hands trembled as she tried to undo the straps of his armor, to get at the wound so she could bind it, “Go,” Marc urged, smiling through the pain, “This wound is not so dire.”

Arrows fell about them as she pulled him into the gatehouse and laid him amidst the corpses of the guards. “Go,” He urged her again, and this time she went.

The battle guard ran through the halls of the East castle, painting the walls red with blood. A small band of guards had tried to make a stand. Ten men only half-dressed for battle, but they had died bravely. It felt as though nothing could stop the battle guard now as they raged onward. Their party splintered and splintered again, breaking off by twos and threes. Three to hold the Keep of the Crossing, two to hold the door to the bridge... Soon it was only Dacey and Jon and the King himself standing in the courtyard in front of the gatehouse. It was a mean thing, with the lowest walls only fifteen-foot high, but still, Dacey wondered what the King could be thinking, assaulting the gatehouse with only two of his battle guard.

“We yield!” A voice called out. “We yield! To you or the men outside! It’s only the two of us up here!”

“If you truly intend to yield,” the king replied, “Come down from the gatehouse and lay down your arms.”

The men did as the King had bidden them, bowing low and scraping and saying “Mercy!” over and over again. Dacey wondered that there were not more defending the gatehouse, but then everything about this night had been strange. What was one more oddity? Both of the men were auburn-haired, like the Lord Edmure, with freckles and plain features. One of them was the elder of the other by twenty years, and Dacey wondered if they might be father and son.

The King executed them both with two quick strokes of his blade, and their auburn heads rolled in the dirt. “Open the gates,” he commanded, and Jon and Dacey obeyed.

The Castle was theirs. The Castle was theirs. No other thought could form inside her head. It seemed impossible, yet so it was. They controlled the East gate, they controlled the bridge, they controlled the door to the Great Keep… and as the gates opened with a creak, a hundred of the Brotherhood streamed through. Thoros and Anguy rode at their head, laughing and smiling.

“I can’t believe it,” she said as a pair of the Brotherhood raised the Direwolf high above the gatehouse. “I still can’t, and I don’t know that I ever will.”

“The gods themselves fight for the King,” Jon replied, mirroring Dacey’s own thoughts. Night attacks were things of chance, where any army a dozen miles out of position, but the Brotherhood had arrived exactly as they had raised the gate. The guard had not seen their approach on the water, had fled from a fight they should have won, and had not rallied to any position of importance after the first time they fled. At every turn the King’s luck had held, and… and there was no other way he could have taken the East Castle. He stood now in the courtyard, eyes closed as if in prayer, while all his army set the castle to rights.

Dacey could only think of the King staring into the flames at the feast, as though he saw something they could not.

“Hear now, look at this!” Anguy’s cheery voice called to them over the yard. He and his men were leading captives, Lord Frey himself chief among them, stumbling and tripping and swearing. Ryman Dacey recognized too, but then she saw who walked behind them and she could pay the Freys no more mind. Edmure Tully and Lucas Blackwood and Vance, all unchained and blinking in the torchlight. She had known they were here, known that they might be made free, but somehow until that moment she had not truly understood. She had given them up for dead, and now that they were alive she could not think what she would say to them.

The Freys were drawn up in front of the king and forced to kneel. Some wept, some cursed, some threw up on the ground, but soon enough they were all subdued. The freed prisoners stepped to the side, looking to Edmure to speak for them.

“Robb,” Edmure said, his voice uncertain. Dacey saw now that a slip of a girl held his arm, a girl shivering in the wind, wearing naught but her nightclothes. She looked around nervously, and Dacey realized she must be Edmure’s Frey wife, the girl they had forced him to marry before the killing had begun. Then Dacey noticed the bulge of the girl’s belly, and she felt herself clench up on the inside.

“I almost could not believe it when I heard,” Edmure said, “Your Grace, I could not-”

“Uncle,” Robb replied, his voice dry and without inflection. “Your wife belongs with her family.”

The girl clung to Edmure all the more tightly. “Your Grace,” Edmure replied, his voice firm. “Your Grace, she had nothing to do with what occurred.”

“She knew and she lured you away and captured you.”

“No,” Edmure replied, his voice rising in pitch. “No, Your Grace, she is innocent. She carries my child, she carries one of your own blood, she-”

“-Will only bring another Frey into the world,” The King pronounced, drawing his sword. “She will face justice along with her kin.’

Dacey never saw what happened next, for she closed her eyes, but the sounds, the sounds… those she would never forget.


	14. The Craven and the Maiden

\---  
Dawn in Harrenhal crept up slowly. The great walls of the castle hid the face of the sun and only the lightening of the sky overhead gave any sign of the day’s beginning. Even after the sun peeked over the walls, it might be trapped behind one of the five great towers and remain in hiding until nearly noon.

The Hound had still been snoring when Arya had stumbled out of their tent in the dark, a rope wound up around her waist. He would likely be snoring still, even now after she had washed her face and dressed and gone all the way to the Dread Tower.

For the most part, the camp of the Valelords looked much the same as it had on the journey through the Riverlands. All the buildings of wood that Arya remembered from her time in Harrenhal were gone now, turned to ash and cinders by the Mountain along with so much else, and so the Host of the Vale was forced to make camp, spreading about in the ruins while the five great towers glowered angrily down upon them.

The Dread Tower rose before her now, dark and foreboding. Ancient stones, fissured in some places and fused in others, but still holding fast after so many years. Every one of the towers was an impossible monument, every one of them made Arya feel as though she must be a mouse, but the Dread Tower dwarfed them all. It was said that a man could jump from the peak and count to fifty before hitting the ground. The last time she had been in Harrenhal, Arya had heard that there were whole families who lived and died in the upper levels of the Dread Tower, never setting foot on the earth below until they were buried beneath it. She had heard, too, that their souls were trapped in the tower, and that their screams mixed with the wind at night.

Arya did not know if she believed that, but it must be easy to believe in curses and ghosts when you lived in the shadow of the Dread Tower. But it mattered little enough. Arya did not fear any ghost. The living terrified her more, and Sansa most of all. The stranger who she had sat next to at every meal for as long as she could remember was in that tower, and Arya felt torn between hope and terror whenever she thought of her.

She had resolved to see her.

Sandor and Baelish and Robb and all the others could wait. Sansa lived, and Sansa needed her. Arya would not be too late a second time.

“Running potions for the Maester again, Arri?” the guard asked, as she approached the base of the tower. Arya breathed a sigh of relief. She knew his face, knew his name, and he would let her in without question.

Arya grimaced. “Milady is taking her potion twice as often now.”

“Well, you best not keep milady waiting!” The guard laughed. “Get on with you!”

Cold settled over her as she stepped into the Dread Tower. Baelish had tried to make the place more welcoming, more courtly, more finished, but tapestries and rugs could only cover up so much, and there was not enough plaster in Westeros to keep the drafts out. Arya shivered.  
What was she thinking coming up here at the crack of dawn? Sansa would take her for a thief, or a killer, or worse. She would never recognize her now, as she was. The winds howled outside the tower, and Arya half felt as though they were screaming at her. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she reminded herself and kept climbing.

Thirty-one, Thirty-two, Thirty-three, she counted as the doors passed by, one by one. Thirty-six! She turned to the side and entered an abandoned chamber on the fifth floor. Even with the whole host of the Vale in garrison, many rooms had been left empty, too ruined for any use, or else forgotten amidst thousands of other chambers and hallways and stairwells. This room, door thirty-six on the fourth stairwell, had been a tiny cell even when in good repair, and years of wind and rain and dragonfire had rendered it home to nothing larger than a spider.

But it did have a window.

Winds tugged and pulled at her as she climbed out of the window. Arya spooled out the rope from around her waist and tied a knot around a jagged stone that stuck out a full foot from the floor. She chewed her lip as she formed the knot, wondering if her hands still remembered all the steps old man Hewbyrt had taught her, back in when she had been Arya Underfoot. She gave the rope a sharp tug and it did not budge. That would have to be enough. If the knots failed her, she would have to see how high she could count before she hit the ground.

But the ropes held, and she lowered herself down with safety. The host of the Vale stretched out beneath her like a painted anthill, and Arya had to look away to avoid becoming sick. Fifteen feet further, and she would be to Sansa’s window, the window she always stood at, looking west. Arya’s hands grew chapped as the roughspun rope passed through her hand, and Arya realized with a heavy heart that she would never be able to climb up again. There was no turning back, not now.

Finally, she came to the window, the window at which she had seen Sansa standing so many times before now. Arya’s feet touched on the windowsill, unlatched the wooden shutters with a knife, and then suddenly she was looking into Sansa’s quarters themselves, like a child looking into a dollhouse. White plastered walls with glorious tapestries hung over them, a brass armillary sphere, and a wide oaken desk covered with books and maps... An embarrassment of riches that seemed a world apart from the hell that had been her last two years.

Nothing was stopping her from just walking in. Nothing and no one, and yet… I’m no craven, she told herself with a grimace and marched through the window.

She prowled like a cat through the chambers, every moment expecting Brune or Baelish or Lysa to appear from behind a curtain and kill her. How would she get past the guard in front of the door on her way out? Why had she not thought of that? She felt as though she were going to be sick.

“Who is there?”

Arya’s blood froze in her veins. A woman’s voice! Sansa’s voice! Her sister was here, was awake... The old fright took her nerves by storm and she felt the urge to run, run and never look back once again.

“Who’s there?” Sansa’s voice was higher, more insistent now. “I can see your shadow by the door and I heard you come in. Don’t think I won’t scream for the guards.”

Arya dragged herself forward to the doorway, eyes downcast, unable to raise her eyes to meet with Sansa’s.

“Who are you?”

“I’m… I’m the one they call Arri, my lady.” Arya’s mouth went dry. Why had she said that?

“Arri?” The sound of shifting silks caused Arya to look up, and with terror, she saw that her sister had gotten out of the bed and was coming toward her. Their eyes met and Sansa gasped in surprise.

“Arya?”

Then Arya was rushing into her sister’s arms, weeping and laughing and holding one another. Her smell, her warmth, Arya drank it all in, every last drop. How long had it been since they had met like this? Years, it must have been. Arya would not let her go, not again.

“How did this happen?” Sansa asked eventually, parting away from her. “I thought you had died, I had… I had given you up for dead, Arya. And yet here you are, so much taller and so much older and...”

“I did nearly die, a lot of times,” Arya laughed. “I don’t know how I’m alive, I don’t know how any of us are alive. But I am alive, and I am here.”

Sansa laughed along with her. It was all too ridiculous. “But what have you been doing all this time?”

“I’ve been running away. From Tywin, from Bolton. Trying to get to Robb, or Jon, or you, and always coming up short. I snuck out from the city with the Night’s Watch, then I was on my own for a bit, and now I’m with the Hound for a while, if you can believe it. He’s working for...”

“For Lord Baelish.” A shadow passed over Sansa’s face. “I have seen him, though I think Lord Baelish meant to keep us separate. I understood why a man like him might take up such work, but… is he helping you?

Arya sighed. “I don’t know. At first, I was his prisoner. He tied me up in his cloak at night and said he was going to sell me to the highest bidder, but now...”

“Has he told Lord Baelish? About you, I mean.”

“No.” Of that much Arya was sure. “Baelish doesn’t even look at me unless I say something.”

Sansa stepped away and walked about the room in a circle, twirling her dyed hair between her fingers. She has changed too, Arya realized. She had become colder, sharper with the years. But she was still Sansa, still her sister.

“Everything is so confusing,” Sansa said finally, sinking to her bed in exasperation. “I have enough to do keeping up with Petyr. There’s something wrong with Lady Lysa, there’s…”

“Baelish is poisoning her,” Arya said flatly. “I’ve seen the maester prepare her potions, and it’s no medicine.”

“Are you sure?” Sansa’s voice was low. “That’s not the sort of thing to say lightly.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “I know what I saw.”

Sansa shook her head and laughed helplessly. “Rolling your eyes at me, Arya? We haven’t changed so much after all, have we?”

Arya felt something like anger well up inside her but she kept it contained. “No. No, things will be different now.” They would have to be.

“True. Even if we should all end up back together… Mother and Father and Bran and Rickon are all gone.”

“Robb’s dead too,” Arya replied without thought.

“Oh! Haven’t you heard?” Sansa smiled widely in surprise. “It seems that I get to be the bearer of good news. Robb’s alive!”

“I heard he drowned in the Trident.” His corpse was cold and red.

“That’s what the Freys thought, but the Brotherhood fished him out and brought him back to life. In the months since he’s put the Lannisters to rout and all but destroyed their hold on the Riverlands. Every report confirms it.”

“But...” Arya’s voice failed her. She had never once thought that the tales of Robb’s survival might be true, that her brother had actually lived. She had been sure he was dead. But why had she been so sure? Because she saw him in her dreams? Because she had pulled his corpse from the River in a dream where she had thought she was a wolf? Even now she could not make herself believe that Robb lived, and yet how would she ever make Sansa believe her? She swallowed. “What’s this I hear about you marrying our cousin?”

Sansa laughed. “Trying to change the subject? I wonder why. Perhaps you’ve been given false hope too many times. But it’s Harry Hardyng I’m to marry, not Sweetrobin. He’s heir to the Vale after our cousin, and Robin is… not strong. Harry and I will be Lord and Lady of the Vale in all but name.”

And will be Lord and Lady in name as well when Robin dies, Arya thought but did not say. Baelish was already poisoning his wife, what was one more? Arya did not know what to think of that. Robin was her blood, but was he pack? Gendry had not been her blood, but he seemed more like pack to her than the sniveling child she had only seen a few times.

Arya cleared her head of confusion. There was no purpose in agonizing over such things now. “Do you trust Baelish?” she asked. “And this Harry, who is he, anyway?”

“Harry is a man. Well, he’s a boy. He’s headstrong, brave, handsome-”

“He sounds stupid.”

Sansa only smiled. “Perhaps he is.”

“And you trust Baelish?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, and now her face truly became troubled. “But Harry is a good match, so I do not see why I should not go along with it. We will need strong connections to survive, Arya.”

Arya felt her guts twist. Sansa had said it right. They could never go back, never make things as they had been. She would be married off to someone to form a political alliance as well, in all likelihood. All throughout her childhood, she had known it would be so. She had even envied Sansa’s prettiness, her marriageability. But now that it came to the matter Arya felt as though a knife had been thrust between her ribs. Had she just got her sister back, only to lose her again to some idiot Valelord?

Her eyes stung and she rubbed at them. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, I’m being stupid.”

Sansa embraced her again, more gently this time. “Come on now, Harry won’t be worse than Tyrion.”

Arya felt the urge to vomit. She had not even thought of that. Her sister seemed so composed, so pure, but she had suffered as much as Arya had, in her own way. Married to that awful dwarf, kept as Joffrey’s prisoner for a year… Arya felt sure she could not have born it, felt sure that she would have died. She has been even more without friends than I have.

“Let’s run away,” Arya said. “It’s easy enough to escape this castle if you know what you’re doing. I’ve done it before, and I’ll bet the Hound would help us if it came down to it.”

Sansa drew in a deep breath. “And where should we run to, little sister?”

Arya bit her cheek. Sansa had grown since they had last parted ways in King’s Landing. She was near enough a woman now that she would have a hard time passing as a boy, and the Riverlands were more dangerous than ever. If they ran now, they would have Baelish and half the Vale on their scent. “We can go to Robb,” she said, almost desperately. Even a fake Robb would guard them more safely than Baelish. “Just a few weeks west of here, if the tales are true.”

“I have greater ambitions than merely living,” Sansa stated, leaning forward. “Whether I can trust Baelish or not, he is helping me for the moment. He is helping us. I will be Lady of the Vale, Arya, and I will make them love me. Robb will set the Riverlands to rights, Jon will break our enemies in the North, and I will bring in the Vale as an ally. Together we’ll be stronger than Robb ever was alone.”

“Jon?” Arya’s heart jumped in her chest.

Sansa’s eyes gleamed with fierce pride. “Had you not heard? Living so near to Baelish has its advantages, I suppose. The Watch released our brother from his vows, and within a month he had half the North cheering his name. The Boltons are dead or imprisoned, and soon all our other enemies in the North will be as well. One of Baelish’s lickspittles claims that we should offer Robb help in putting down the bastard usurper.”

Arya could only snort in reply to that. The last few years had seen a thousand awful miracles and a thousand tragedies, but Jon would never turn against Robb. But Robb is dead, she remembered, and then was unhappy again.

Still, whoever was pretending to be him must be a supporter of house Stark, and such a person could not be so wholly evil that they would stand against Jon’s rightful claim… or was it Sansa’s, now? She did not know.

“I still don’t trust Baelish,” Arya said. “The Hound is a villain and a murderer, but at least I know what to expect from him.”

Sansa nodded. “If he’s kept you safe so far… yes. It’s probably best if you stay hidden. But I’m glad to have you back regardless, and I won’t let you escape from me again.”

“Nor I you, sister,” Arya said, and the words may as well have been an oath. Never again.

A sound came at the door, the outer door to Sansa’s quarters, and Arya cursed.

“Quiet,” Sansa said. “It’s just the maid come to get me ready for the day. Hide under the bed and you can escape after I leave for morning prayers. Dressed like you are, nobody will look twice at you leaving my room.”

“Sansa!” Arya said. “There’s a rope out by the window! You must close the shutters so they don’t see it!”

“I will manage it, just hide!”

Arya did as she was told. The underside of Sansa’s bed was dusty and cramped, but it was also dry, and Arya had slept in worse places. She stayed there for nearly an hour as Sansa went about her morning routine, getting her hair done, getting her dresses laced, and a thousand other things.

...and Arya found herself drifting off. It was a terribly dangerous place to sleep, all things considered, but she could not help herself. She had always been drowsy of late, it seemed, and her early morning adventures had tired her, and the room was so very warm…

Arya was a wolf again. The Wolf was sleeping this time, resting on a patch of dry ground amidst a wet and wild land. She was tired, and well-fed, having chased down an entire herd of deer the day before. She could smell the warmth of her packmates around her, even more clearly than she could see them in the fog. The pack had grown again, feasting on game both wild and tame. The air had been growing colder, however, and the Wolf felt it. The Wolf knew that winter was coming. For the moment the swamps were shelter enough, with dense warm fog rising up from the waters to fill their nostrils, and game of all sorts fleeing the cold forests… but soon there would not be enough to sustain them.

Something in the air haunted her, beyond the sense of the coming winter. Something awful and unspeakable blew in on the winds of the west, scenting panic and horror. The Wolf did not know what to think of such an omen, but neither did the Wolf did not fear the unknown. Whatever was coming, they would survive, or they would not. The Wolf knew this truth at least.

Her thoughts turned to her siblings. The runt walked a thin line, living with man and feasting on man-flesh. She could feel his rage as though it were a raging fire. Another of her brothers walked with him, ever confused and uncertain, but calmer now for their brother’s presence. Her third brother went ever north, ever closer to the Heart of Winter and she could not see why. Only one wolf moved in the south. His presence was the most altered of all, so strange and watchful. He felt different, more mixed, as though he were two of her pack at once, but still, she knew him.

Come south, the voice in her thoughts echoed, and she felt herself agreeing. Come south and bring the pack with you, for soon you will all be required.

The great wolf rose from her seat and howled, a hundred more howls rising up in reply. ‘Let us hunt!’ They cried, ‘Let us hunt to the south!’ They would soon be required in the south, though she did not know why.

The scene changed, and suddenly she was Arya again, and not the wolf. Grey Wind lay curled up nearby, sleeping peacefully, but this time they were in a forest clearing and the moon was out. Arya had not seen the direwolf for almost a week now, except in her dreams like this. She allowed herself to relax, to lie closer to the wolf and feel its warmth.

“Ah there you are,” her brother said, coming out of the dark of the trees. “How is my little sister.”

“I went to see Sansa,” Arya said.

“I am happy to hear you say that,” Robb replied, his tired face crinkling into a smile. Arya’s chest tightened with a pang of guilt. How many times had Robb’s ghost told her to go to Sansa? Sometimes she felt that was all they talked about in these dreams, but that was not quite true. Sometimes he told her stories of the war, sometimes he told her of Jeyne Westerling, her new sister…

But it always came back to Sansa. Arya had made excuses, so many excuses. She swallowed. “I know I should have done it earlier, Robb. I could have done it, too. I only….”

“It’s alright.”

“I wanted to go, you know.”

“But you also were afraid.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Yes.” She admitted, looking away. “I am afraid. I am a craven. I always called all the others that, but...”

Robb drew her into a hug, holding her tight and rocking her side to side as she sobbed. This isn’t real, she reminded herself. This is only a dream.

“You’ve been a craven,” he said, “but you’ve also been brave, little sister.”

Arya grimaced. “Which is it? Brave or craven?”

Robb chuckled. “Both at the same time, I think. Nobody’s ever just one thing or another.”

You are, she thought. You’re dead, and nothing more than that. But I’m glad you’re here, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait guys, I've had a busy month. There are lots of good changes being made in my life right now, but they're changes that require a lot of time from me so I've been less active. I'm happy to be able to get this chapter out again now and I'm grateful to you all for your continued support. Thanks for reading.


	15. Speak No Lies to the Trees

Jon met with Stannis in Roose Bolton’s former quarters, chambers richly furnished and kept warm by hearth fire. The decor made Jon wish to vomit, with pink upholstery, with tapestries depicting great slaughters lining the walls and Myrish rugs of pink and red covering the floor. The furniture had been carefully, expertly carved, every leg of every chair and table somehow taking the form of a contorted, tortured man or woman. A silver-plated skull rested on the table in the center of the room amidst King Stannis’ many maps and letters.

The King himself towered over the table as Jon entered, his brow angry and frustrated. His skin had become thin and pale, hanging off his skull like cloth draped over a coatrack. Ned had always seemed old compared to men his own age, but Stannis seemed older still, like he had spent twenty years under siege and not one.

“You’re late,” Stannis growled, but Jon paid him no mind, settling into one of the chairs without a word.

“We need to move south,” The King continued, still not looking up from his maps, “We need to secure ourselves against the Lannisters before pushing out. We will need White Harbor to control the sea and Moat Cailin to secure the land, but Greywater is beyond our reach and Manderly says nothing. We must...”

“I came here to discuss terms.”

Still, Stannis refused to look up but Jon could see his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “What is there to discuss? You will swear fealty to me tomorrow on behalf of your brother in the sight of all your gathered lords, and that will be the end of it.” Finally, he looked up, meeting Jon’s gaze, “Or do you mean to go back on your word? Do you mean to give me battle?”

Jon felt fire kindle deep in his heart. “Is this your idea of a threat? You will have to do better than that. You have seven thousands? I have ten here, and five more besides who march with Mors to Deepwood Motte.”

“You have sticks held by women dressed in rags,” Stannis snarled. “You could have five times my numbers, and with such quality of arms it would make no difference.”

Jon scowled. He had not come here to wage war. The North needed peace, needed unity. The Ironborn still held Deepwood Motte, the Lannisters still ruled in King’s Landing, and the Flints wrote of black-sailed galleys off the southwest coast. With luck they might survive against all these until Winter, and then… Jon’s heartfelt cold. He had to cast aside doubt and fear if he meant to prevail. Stannis would bring seven thousand swords to fight against the Others. That was what mattered.

Jon cooled his temper and leaned toward Stannis. “Those wildling dogs you so despise are my subjects,” he said. “When I swear to you tomorrow, King, they will be your subjects as well. And not just them, but Barbrey and Ryswell and others who have every reason to mistrust you. I will swear oaths to you, but I have sworn to them as well, your Grace, and I do not mean to break my word.”

“Your word.” Stannis turned away in disgust, pacing away before returning. “Why not be more honest? Why not say what we all already know? It is your ambition that goads you onward, not your honor.”

“And what if it is?”Jon, said, his face hot. “Your cause cannot survive without my support, Baratheon, and you would do well to remember it.”

“Neither can your cause survive without mine!”

A moment passed, both of them staring over the table, daring the other to look away first. I could make do without you, Jon wanted to say, but he knew it would be a lie. He had to march east to the Deepwood and possibly south to White Harbor, he could not be marching west to Karhold as well.

“I will hear your demands, Stark,” Stannis said at last, holding Jon’s gaze. “But the days are short. Do not waste my time.”

Jon leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him as he had seen his father do so many times before. “Rickon will be a Prince, not a lord, and will be accorded all the rights and privileges of that position alongside every right and privilege that our Lord Father held as lord of Winterfell.”

“I have already agreed to this,” Stannis stated, his eyes hard and resentful.

“The North will not be required to march south of the neck until after the end of winter.” Dustin would like that. Ryswell too, and most of the wildlings. For all of them, the war in the south had been nothing more than a distant rumor, a hateful and pointless conflict. Jon wished he had gone south earlier, before the war, when his brother and father and others might be saved… but now there was no point. Only Sansa remained, and she at least would survive. “We cannot afford a long campaign while the snows are falling.”

“Ridiculous,” Stannis replied.

“The fight is here,” Jon hissed. “Here in the North. I would have thought your Red Lady would have impressed that on you, in all those private councils you hold with her.”

“I will support your sworn brothers with all I have,” Stannis spat. “And I will also settle with our enemies to the south. To stand against one and ignore the other would be to stand with a knife at our backs.”

“You have no idea what our true enemy is like, no idea what they can do.”

“So what would you propose, then? We place every man in the North atop that block of ice and let them starve? Is that your strategy?”

“Set the North to rights, hold Moat Cailin, and-”

“And what of the Riverlands? What of the many thousands who linger under Lannister's tyranny? Have you forgotten that the men who made you king are still fighting? What of your uncle, Edmure? What of your sister in King’s Landing?”

“Do not speak to me of them,” Jon snarled. “You do not know-”

“I know enough. I know that you swore to follow the Watch and broke faith with them twice. I know that you swore to follow Mance and betrayed him. I know that you swore to follow me and now come with threats and insults. I know-”

Jon stood up, ears pounding with pressure, “I did everything for the survival of the Watch!”

Stannis did not reply, only held him with those cold, hard eyes of his. Jon looked away. 

“We will speak of this again,” he said and left without another word.

***

The cold of the godswood did little to cool Jon’s temper. Baratheon was a fool, a damned fool, and Jon should have killed him when he had the chance. The man had seven thousands to his name, less than half Jon’s force, and yet he thought to stand over him as king. As though Stannis were owed loyalty for being the last survivor of a failed line. We’ll be lucky to survive the winter, but if we do, Stannis means to have us turn our swords south. Has he not had enough blood? Does he not understand that Ryswell and Dustin will not follow him south?

Jon stared at the twisted face that had been carved into the Dreadfort’s heart tree. Its eyes and mouth and ears all leaked blood. No doubt some ancient Bolton had thought that it would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. But the Boltons had died and their fortress had been taken, and Jon had moved past fear of ghosts. Jon closed his eyes and spoke to the tree. No secrets, as his father had taught him.

He wished he could go back to the days when men judged him unfairly for things he could not control. That pain had been familiar. Now when men accused him of wrong he did not know what to say to them. He had broken every vow, every sacred rite, and when men hated him they had good reason. Had he ever had a choice? Would he do anything differently, if given the choice? Perhaps he should have gone south when Robb yet lived before the whole of the cause had turned so sour. Perhaps he should have stayed with Ygritte and tried to persuade the brotherhood to let them through… He did not know. He could not know. That thought hurt most of all. It would be better if things were simpler.

He opened his eyes, the grotesque carving howling back at him, and he smiled.

“Are you finished wallowing in your own misery?”

He rose to his feet, startled. Alys Karstark approached him, walking through the trees of the godswood dressed in black and white with an ornate silver necklace that reached from her collarbone to her chest. Alys wore a great cloak trimmed with wolf-fur that only emphasized how thin and frail she was. A slight smile quirked at the edge of her mouth that made Jon feel as though he had been caught doing something wrong.

“I was confessing. Speaking to the trees, your ladyship.” He did not know what to say. She had visited Winterfell, once, and danced with Robb, but Jon had not spoken to her then. He had not been allowed. With Jonnel Cerwyn, or Dustin, or Val, speech had been easy. There he had been a conquering lord come to treat with a vassal. But with Karstark, with Alys... things were not the same. She had sworn to Rickon, not to Jon, and as such she was more Stannis’ vassal than his own, at least for today.

“Do the trees speak back?”

“Thankfully not.”

That earned another slight smile. “Would you walk with me, my lord? I find myself trapped indoors too often, and in need of exercise.”

He was not her lord, not yet, but he walked with her anyway. They continued in silence for some time, the crunch of the snow under their feet and the cawing of the ravens overhead the only sounds in the Godswood. Idly he wondered if Roose had been a keeper of the Green way, if he had been as pious and as serious as father had… it seemed impossible that a man so false might fear the gods, but who knew what lay in the hearts of man? Not Jon, certainly.

“All is not well between the King and yourself,” Alys said eventually, “Will this ceremony tomorrow still take place, or shall we have a battle instead?”

Jon grimaced. “Who told you that?”

“The trees,” she replied airily.

Jon drew in a breath. He supposed they must have been yelling loud enough for half the servants in the Dreadfort to hear them. “We will stand together,” he said with finality.

“And what of your disagreements?”

“I will make the King see reason,” he said. “I will make him see that we cannot march south in safety.”

“Reason?” She scowled. “Does a man of reason run out from his King’s presence without even asking for dismissal? Does a man of reason stew and simmer in the Godswood for hours?” She caught his gaze and held it as if daring him to contradict her.

Jon looked away. “Perhaps not,” he said finally. “But there is nothing to be done. He insults me at every turn. He does not, will not, trust my council.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Yes.” Jon surprised himself with how confidently he said it. “He knows about the real enemy. He needs me to stand against them.”

“Ah yes,” Alys replied. “The real enemy. But does he need you? He has Rickon.”

“My brother is five years old,” Jon said, “He has the Stark name, but he’s barely even a boy. Do you think Dustin and Mance are so in love with my father that they’d follow a babe into battle? Are you? Is that why you declared for him and Stannis? Were you overcome by my brother’s lordly heritage?”

Alys rolled her eyes. “It was my great uncle Arnolf that declared for Stannis and Rickon, not me. His scheme was to me to marry his disgusting son, then declare against the Lannisters so that they’d execute my brother Harry and his son would inherit.” She smirked. “Three days of the king’s presence in Karhold were enough to have him writing to the Boltons. He meant to offer them Stannis’ head. But the Maester left the letters out where a servant could get them, and so it was my uncle who lost his head instead.”

Jon laughed. It was not funny, but after everything that had happened… Gods, it was good to again hear a story, a true story, where the evil man got his just deserts. All the old stories had been like that, but true stories seldom ended so cleanly.

“Stannis thought you were like my nuncle, Jon. He depended upon it.”

Jon did not know what to say to that.

“He thought you would be eager to see your brother dead, to solidify your claim,” Alys continued. “He said as much to his war council in the weeks before our armies met. The plan was to show you your lord brother and imply we’d kill him if you fought us.”

Jon’s heart sank. “And what, he had his men prepare the ground ahead of me?”

“It was inconsiderate of you to choose peace,” Alys laughed. “The men worked long and hard on those pits.”

“Digging in the ice and frozen earth like that...” Jon’s fingers ached just thinking about it.

“It was hell for them. I’d counsel you not go near the King’s camp, Lord Jon, lest a maddened Stormlander take you from behind with a blunted shovel.”

Jon smiled and shook his head. A moment of silence passed, more amicable than the previous. “So why are you here?” He asked. “Why did you seek me out, here in the Godswood?”

“Why?” she snorted. “To charm you and make you fall in love with me of course.”

Jon frowned. “My question was meant in earnest.”

“So was my answer.”

Jon looked at her in puzzlement. She scowled. “I thought my intention was clear enough.”

“No,” Jon replied, “I just-” He paused. “Why?”

“Why not? I won’t be Lady of Karhold forever unless my brother Harry bites it. I need to make some kind of connection. You’re to be Rickon’s regent, you’re nearly my age and you’ve got most of your teeth besides. That puts you head and shoulders above all the up-jumped onion knights who’ve been playing at courtly love since my uncle lost his head.”

Jon blinked. He had thought of marriage, of course, with Val or with one of the Umber girls. He had thought of children playing in the Godswood of Winterfell in the spring. That had been his dream, his distant hope, but always something had held him back, kept him from losing himself in that pleasant notion.

“Besides which,” Alys continued, “It seems to me that if you’re struggling to get the King to trust you, it might make sense to seal the contract between you with a marriage. I-”

“My vows,” he said, uncertain. “My vows to the Watch, they...” 

“You’ve already gone and broken those, what’s the use in pretending otherwise?” bewilderment filled Alys’ voice. “You can’t have seriously intended for your line to end with you before Rickon appeared. Hells, you should have been getting bastards on every whore from Greywater to Last Hearth.”

“I’ve not fathered a bastard,” Jon replied hotly.

“And all things considered, I’m glad to hear it, but what was your plan, Stark? Did you think you would remain unwed forever?”

“I just thought...” what had he thought? That he would keep half his oaths but forget the rest? That men would respect a King who fathered no heir? But then he thought of red hair splayed out against the snow and he remembered. He hated how long it had taken him.

“There was a girl. A girl I thought I might marry,” he said, his eyes kept straight forward. “It was a foolish idea, a doomed notion.” He paused and looked up through the bare branches of the trees, to the endless slate-gray sky above. He would have given the world to see her in brocade and silk. He would have given his life for her. But not his honor. He had given that up later.

“She died,” he managed eventually.

“How long ago?” Alys’ voice was very small.

Jon sighed. “I can’t remember. Six months, it must be.”

“The wildling girl.”

A laugh escaped him. “She was four years my senior. If she was a girl, then what are we?”

“A girl and a boy,” Alys replied. “Not more or less, despite everything that’s happened.”

Jon looked at her. She was thin and tall and straight with a hard face and eyes full of ice. Kissed by flame, that was what they had called Ygritte, but Alys has been kissed by ice. Even now she regarded him evenly, as though they were discussing the weather and not a dearly departed lover. Alys was cold... but she was not cruel.

“You have spoken more kindly to me than I deserved,” Jon said. “You would be well within your rights to take offense at my behavior.”

Alys shrugged. “What purpose would that serve? I lost my betrothed and two brothers in the Whispering Wood, and your brother Robb executed my father for treason. I know well enough the pain you feel and I’ve no cause to disrespect it.”

She does know, Jon felt with certainty. “I don’t know what to say,” He said.

“Neither do I. Perhaps in five years, the hurt will not be so raw and I will be able to make sense of it. Perhaps not. Perhaps by then, we’ll all be dead.”

Jon sighed and looked toward the great Keep of the Dreadfort. “Perhaps I’d better get back up there and make peace with my king.”

“Perhaps you should.”

***

Stannis was still stuck over the table, glowering at the maps and letters as though he could intimidate them into saying something that they did not. The Onion Knight and half a dozen others Jon could not remember the names of were crowded around him, discussing something in whispered tones.

Stannis looked up as Jon entered. “Leave us. Not you, Davos. All the rest. I would speak with Lord Jon alone.” he said, and all the knights obeyed.

Jon bowed slightly. “Your Grace,” he said simply.

“Lord Jon.”

“I have come to apologize for my lack of decorum earlier, and to explain myself.”

Stannis slumped into a chair and gestured for Jon to do the same. Jon reached to the table and pushed the letters aside to show the map of the North that lay beneath.

“You have the allegiance of Karhold and you have conquered the Dreadfort,” he said, pointing to the fortresses on the map. “Last Hearth, Winterfell, Castle Cerwyn, the Rills, and Barrowtown all support me, as well as the mountain clans and the Flints..”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Jon drew a circle on the map with his finger, “Dustin and Ryswell control a third of our heavy infantry and all our lands south of Winterfell. I defeated them in battle once, but it was an uncertain thing and I had neither time nor men enough to truly bring them to heel. Their loyalty is wholly contingent on the belief that we will not force them to march south of the Neck. If you march south, it will be without them, and if the war should go poorly for you...” Jon winced.

Stannis’ frown deepened by a fraction. “You think they would turn on you?”

“What loyalty is owed an oathbreaking bastard? Their man Rakelin is here with us. He keeps a dozen ravens with him at all times, so that he might write home to his lady in Barrowtown. I intend that he should have a good report for her.”

“I will not commit to peace with the Lannisters,” Stannis said. “If the Riverlands are fallen and our enemies secured, then we would better off waiting for them to come to us, but if they are weak, if they are still fighting in the Riverlands, we must crush them while we still have the chance.”

“What do we say then, when I take my oaths as Rickon’s regent tomorrow?”

“You must bear little love for your family if you are so eager to stay away from them.”  
Blood rushed to Jon’s head. How dare he, how dare he? Words intruded into Jon’s mind, words that could not be taken back… but he stopped himself, stopped himself from speaking his mind and letting loose his thoughts.

“Your Grace,” he said, after the rage had passed, “I loved my trueborn siblings with all my heart, but I have no family in the south. Not anymore. Sansa and Arya are missing and Robb and my father are dead. I want vengeance. I hunger for it. The blood of my father calls out to me from the Sept of Baelor, the blood of my brother calls out from the Twins, but if I am forced to choose between fighting for the living, and fighting for the dead? I will choose the living.”

“And what of the latest news from King’s Landing?” Stannis scoffed. “Men say your brother is returned, that he leads his army to victory after victory, slaying the Mountain himself outside Fairmarket?”

A weight settled in Jon’s guts. “I know better by now than to believe a false hope. If the Riverlands are still fighting… we must do something for them. But these rumors are just that, rumors. Perhaps one of my brother’s guardsmen has donned my brother’s armor to strike fear into the hearts of the Lannister men, but I know for a fact that Robb is gone.”

He did know it, that was the strange thing. He knew it more intimately than he knew almost anything. Sansa, Arya, Bran even Ygritte… any one of them could walk into the Dreadfort tomorrow and he would not be surprised. But Robb was dead, that he knew for a fact.

Davos cleared his throat, speaking for the first time. “The truth is, my lords, that news from the Riverlands has been slow and hard to come by. I think even Lady Dustin would agree that committing to any course of action at this point would be rash.”

“What do you propose?” Stannis asked.

“We have already sent riders to White Harbor,” Davos said, “Whether they respond favorably or unfavorably, the presence of milords will be required, and it is likely they will have more recent news than we. We can make a decision there and march further south if milords deem it necessary.”

Jon glared at him testily. “And what of Dustin and Ryswell?” Had he not been listening to their whole discussion?

“Prince Rickon is Robb’s heir,” Davos said, somewhat uncertainly. “As his regent, you will pledge to guard his realm, no more or less. If the fight in the Riverlands has ended and the Lannisters rule there, we can in good faith say that they are no longer part of the North and wash our hands of them. But if the Riverlands are still fighting in the name of King Robb, how can Dustin or anyone say that you are bringing war to the North by marching to relieve them?”

Jon struggled to conceal his surprise. Until now he had assumed that the Onion Knight had been made Hand of the King as something of a joke on the King’s part, but the man had spoken rightly.

“And so at last we come to an arrangement,” Stannis said, his frown refusing to budge in the slightest. “Unless you had another request?”

“None more,” Jon replied. “Not now.”

***

Jon took his oaths in the Godswood the next day at dawn, with half a thousand there to witness. The ceremony was simple and short, in part out of necessity. Prince Rickon could not be made to sit still for more than half an hour, no matter how much Osha coaxed him. He had grown so tall, so fierce since Jon had known him last. Rickon had been little better than a babe in arms when he had left, constantly crying and full of tears. Now he was a boy, a boy who had grown up sleeping under hedges and stealing bread for food. He had a prideful air to him despite his age, deep steel born of suffering and hardness. Jon did not think it would not be easy to rule him. Was proud of that, or afraid?

As the final act of the ceremony, Jon placed his crown in front of his brother as an offering. The crowd cheered at that, but Rickon seemed hardly to care. Jon’s heart ached to see his brother so indifferent. Jon had only had the crown made after he took Winterfell, just a few short months ago. He had wanted the crown, he had always wanted it, and now to see it go?

At least I am no usurper, he thought. At least Lady Catelyn’s judging eyes would no longer haunt him at every turn. Oathbreaker, sorcerer, and traitor, yes, but not a usurper. That had been why he had agreed to be Rickon’s regent in the first place.

Festivities followed in the Great Hall. Jon sat two seats below the King, next to his brother. Rickon looked like a frightened rabbit on his high seat, surrounded by so many others, but that all changed when the food came out. The boy ate like an animal and every second had some new question about which people were which and what they were named, but Jon did not mind. Rickon called him brother and that was enough.

Alys on his right was a stark contrast. She dressed even more formally now than she had on the day previous, with sapphires and silvers laced through her braid and dark black dress of silk lined with wool. She did not smile, did not talk much at all, and for that Jon was most grateful. Time alone with his thoughts was what he most sorely needed.

“Jon!” Prince Rickon barked, his mouth half full of meat. “Jon, what is this stuff?”

“It’s pheasant, brother. Bolton bred them for hunting. You’ve had it before.” Though not prepared half so well, I would warrant. The castle’s garrison had surrendered to Stannis without a fight, and the Bolton cook had yet to disappoint. Wines from the Arbor, matched with fresh pork and corn. Black bread and pheasant seasoned expertly with spices Jon had never even heard of… after a year at and beyond the Wall, it tasted like heaven to Jon.

“I like it!” Rickon said simply.

Jon smiled. “You are a prince now, brother, you can have it every day, so long as you attend to your lessons.”

“Shaggydog likes it too! You should give some to Ghost.”

“Ghost prefers to hunt his own food, my Prince.” 

Rickon sniffed at Jon calling him ‘prince’ and then went back to devouring his food. Jon sighed and looked down at his own meal.

“Any regrets, Lord Regent?” Alys’ intrusion caught Jon off guard, so much so that he nearly spilled his wine.

Jon smiled. “More than I can count. But not one from today.” He felt giddy, almost lightheaded. He did not know if it was the wine or the rich food or the hearth fire… or the happy thought that they might all live through this war yet. And why should they not? The North had been willing to follow an oathbreaking bastard for a time, why should they not be willing to follow Rickon? Jon would be his strength, his support, and Rickon would grow up an honorable, untainted prince. So long as they acted as one they would be without weakness.

A sound came from the doorway, the music ceasing as all the feasters looked on in shock. Knights had entered the Hall, three knights wearing full harness. The first of them wore the mermaid of Manderly. The second wore the Glover fist and the third… the third was a woman, he realized, an old woman wearing the bear of Mormont. Jon’s mouth went dry. He rose, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Who are you and what is your business here?” Stannis called, his voice cold and harsh. “Come you in peace or war?” Jon ground his teeth. House Manderly had been so silent for so many months… Had they signed terms with the Lannisters? Had they given up their imprisoned son for loss? And what were Mormont and Glover doing in attendance?

The Glover man stepped forward, bowing to Jon and Stannis each in turn, but kneeling to neither. “I am Lord Glover. These here with me are Maege Mormont and Ser Stevren, sworn sword of House Manderly. We come bearing news. Whether it is peace or war, that is for you to decide. We rode with King Robb for many months, only parting ways shortly before the treachery of the Freys. Like many, we received the letter from Mors Umber claiming that the will of King Robb name his half-brother Jon as his successor. Like many, we were eager to acclaim Lord Jon as king after the death of King Robb. But glorious news comes from the south! King Robb is not dead. King Robb is alive, and long may he live!”

Jon’s knuckles whitened on the hilt of his blade. “We too have heard this tale, but we thought it nothing more than a tale. Have you proof?”

The Manderly knight produced a letter sealed with the sigil of House Umber. No, Jon thought, impossible. The Smalljon was the one who had written to Last Hearth to declare Jon as Robb’s heir in the first place. The one who had declared Robb's death was now writing to confirm his life? A page brought the letter forward and Jon split the seal with his knife. His lips turned. The Brotherhood had fished Robb out of the Trident, the letter claimed. Robb’s injuries had been severe but not deadly, the letter declared. 

But Robb is dead, Jon repeated, his heart aching as though he was hearing word of his brother’s death for the first time again. Robb is dead and I know it for a fact. 

“This letter,” Jon said, “It is dated almost three months past.”

“We went to Winterfell first,” Glover explained. “We have been seeking you for some months now.”

Jon could feel every eye in the room turned toward him, even the king’s. His hands trembled as he set the letter down. What did this mean? What must he do? This party of three had chosen their line of attack well. He had no time to hold council with the king, no time to think or to calm his emotions. He could not deny the letter, not in front of so many witnesses. Not when the very man who had declared Jon’s right to Winterfell now spoke of Robb being alive. But what of the promises made between him and Stannis, him and Mance? Murmurs rose throughout the room, murmurs of sedition, of violence, of betrayal. Jon hated himself for wishing his brother still dead, hating himself for fearing what a living Robb could mean for the North at this fragile stage.

He closed his eyes and breathed out, imagining he was in the Godswood, speaking to that awful heart tree. 

“If this tale is true, if my brother lives, I will not usurp him. But I have made holy promises in the name of House Stark. I enlisted wildlings into the army of the North, gave rights to their greatest leaders, and agreed to give over the Dreadfort to them. I pledged allegiance to King Stannis. My brother will be bound to honor these commitments.”

“We have no king but King Robb,” Maege Mormont yelled, “And he is not beholden to you!”

Perhaps not, Jon thought, but if he truly is my brother, he will listen to me. He must listen to me.


End file.
